


Guardian at the Gate

by crabapplered



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: A/B/O, AU, Alpha Noctis, Beta Gladio, M/M, Omega Ignis, Political Drama, Sexual Slavery, omega Prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: A/B/O au. No prophecy, though the Empire is still a threat.With the King's health in decline and the Council at each other's throats, the paparazzi poking into things not their business and Noctis on the cusp of graduation highschool, Ignis must defend Noctis' life, his reputation, and his freedom to seek love where he will.No matter the cost to Ignis himself.





	1. Chapter 1

Ignis frowns down at the cooling corpse. A pity he's still not as skilled in combat as Gladio. It would have been nice to take this one alive.  
  
"Tessel? Code 19," he says into his phone. "Parking garage, east elevators. Yes, I'll wait, but please be expedient. I don't want His Highness' ice cream to melt."  
  
A bark of laughter. "As if it could with you there, Ice Queen."  
  
Still bitter that Ignis refused her, it seems. Ignis spends the wait debating if it would be better to have the woman reassigned. Most of the alphas on staff have accepted that Ignis is off the market, unclaimed though he may be, but every so often some fool lets their base instincts convince them that all they need is the right command and they'll have any omega they desire on hands and knees, begging for the bite.  
  
_Perhaps a few more days grace_ , he decides when Tessel shows up in under six minutes with both a Glaive investigation team and a forensic  clean up crew. The woman might be holding a grudge, but she's professional enough to keep it from hindering her duties. _If she can get over the bruised ego she'll be firmly on her way to a promising career._  
  
"If you would be so kind," Ignis says to the two cleaners, a pair of beta twins gone plump and sweet with middle age, and he offers them his bloody gloves.  
  
Their eyes crinkle in smiles above their neat white face masks. "Of course, dear," says the one on the left, taking them from him to stuff into a plastic bag.  
  
"My, my," mutters the other, staring at the blood seeping from the dead body's armpit to pool in a wide, irregular puddle on the parking garage concrete. "Axillary artery, was it? And you only got your gloves dirty? Such a fastidious young man."  
  
"Yes, well. The benefits of experience, I suppose." Not enough to save the boy. He'd lept out at Ignis from behind the row of recycling bins by the elevators, knives out and teeth barred and alpha musk flooding out of him like a tidal wave, battering at Ignis' senses and threatening to drown him. The whites of the attackers eyes had been stark rings of madness, glittering in the dim halogen of the garage, and Ignis had known in an instant he didn't have the skill to disable that thrashing mass of rage.  
  
Then the attacker took his first swipe. A high, wild slash. His side completely unguarded.  
  
And Ignis had dodged, stepped past, pivoted quick and close so he could slice _up_ and _in_ and then _out_ . . .  
  
A rasping cry and few shaky steps were all the boy managed before he crumpled to his knees.  
  
Moments later he'd been dead.  
  
_A sad end that should have been entirely avoided_. He raises his voice. "Tessel. Any idea how he got in?"  
  
The Glaive glances over at him from where she's been talking with the investigators. "Nothing yet." She chews her lip a moment, then offers, "I checked in and made sure the perimeter is secure, and there's Glaives inbound for a security sweep. The Shield is already upstairs."  
  
_Very good._ Very _good indeed._  
  
He'd had to step on her rather hard —both figuratively and literally— to halt any pretentions of dominance, but he hadn't wanted to crush her sense of initiative.  
  
"Thank you. I appreciate not having to handle all the details. Please keep me updated on the investigation." He gives her a precisely correct nod, then gathers the grocery bags and heads up the elevators.  
  
He is alone in that small space. He still can't relax. There are security cameras. The footage will be reviewed. And anyway, the air stinks of death and blood and the pheromone backwash of the dead alpha boy, hardly something to encourage him to drop his guard. He reviews his plans for dinner, for checking Noct's homework, for managing Prompto, shuffling around the timing so he can have a shower before he cooks. Bad enough he'll be dragging this stink into the prince's apartment. Worse to spoil the food with it.  
  
That the ice cream is a bit melted won't matter too much. He's planning on root beer floats.  
  
Actually . . .  
  
His busy mind turns over possibilities. There'll be no hiding the attack from Noctis, so why not make the most of it to further his prince's cause? He sets down the various bags, then fishes out one of two plain white cardboard boxes.  
  
He'd bought a pair of large mugs to make the floats in, heavy glass with thick bottoms. You need the space and the weight for the ice cream, and Noctis only had standard cups in his apartment. Now, however . . .  
  
Ignis squints at the box in careful calculation. And then, very deliberately, smashes it to the ground.  
  
He picks it up and opens it to check. The mug inside has been deeply cracked. _Alas. It seems this one got damaged in the fight with that would-be assassin. I'm afraid His Highness will have to share his float with Prompto. Two straws should to the trick._  
  
The thought makes him smile as he repacks the box. Noctis and Prompto will have to sit close to share properly. Thigh to thigh on the couch, perhaps, with a video game as poor distraction from passing the mug back and forth, fingers brushing, musk fogging the air with the adolescent mix of desire and embarrassment.  
  
A bit overdone and unsubtle besides, but the classics endure for a reason. As for subtlety, ha!  
  
_Utterly wasted on a pair so blinded by their own insecurities it's a wonder they can see their phones well enough to swap those embarrassingly gushy texts._  
  
The elevator door slides open just as Ignis finishes gathering up the bags. He checks the fish eye security mirror opposite the doors to make sure the way is clear, then steps out into the clean, sleek, and blessedly deserted space.  
  
It's a long walk down the hall, his steps slow and measured, the sound bouncing off the parquet floor, the cherry wood panelling. The place smells of air freshener and the clean, sharp greenery of the potted cedars tucked under each light, and Ignis is more conscious than ever of the reek of death trailing behind him like a war banner. The hallway's scent suppression is because of him, he knows. Him, because the Glaives stay on the battlefield, because Gladio is skilled enough to take attackers alive, because the civilians who come and go never have blood on their hands.  
  
_I need more training_.  
  
Always more training. Always striving to improve. Polish out the nicks until he's as sharp and true as the finest dagger, a tool fitting for a prince's hands. Impeccable functionality. Nothing more is needed.  
  
_Nothing else is desired._  
  
He leaves that thought to decay, alone and abandoned in the hall, and moves on. Ahead of him is the door to Noctis' apartment.  
  
~  
  
It's Gladio who lets Ignis into the apartment. He opens the door before Ignis can brandish his keycard, big frame filling the doorway, eyes scanning Ignis for injuries, for signs of distress or coercion. He sniffs the air and grunts. Asks,  
  
"How'd the bastard get in?"  
  
"Currently unknown. I'm being kept in the loop."  
  
"Remember to share," says Gladio, and steps aside just enough to let Ignis through.  
  
"Of course." It's a tight squeeze, forcing Ignis to press up against Galdio's broad chest, brush hip with hip and mingle their scents in an intimacy Ignis would have preferred to avoid and Gladio's own protective beta instincts demand, wanting to make sure everyone inside is tagged as his pack.  
  
But as powerful as Gladio's rich perfume of leather and blade oil is, it can't hope to cover the stench of someone's death, so Ignis warns him, "I'm taking a shower as soon as I settle His Highness with a snack." He drops his bags so the can take off his shoes. Adds, "And you had better use some deodorant as well. We shouldn't be soiling the place with blood stink."  
  
Gladio shuts the door and checks to make sure the autolock engaged. "Why not? The Princess could use a dose of real life in here."  
  
_He still has nightmares from the Marilith attack_ , Ignis doesn't say. _The scent of blood brings him back to that night and strands him there, in the fear and the dark._ "He's seventeen and these are peacetimes. He has no reason to grow used to the scent of death, and many reasons not to. Besides," adds Ignis in lower tones. "Prompto is here."  
  
A civilian.  
  
An omega.  
  
An _innocent_.  
  
"Iggy? Is that you?" As if to underscore the point, Prompto himself trots over to them from the living room, bright-eyed and smiling. He's still in his school uniform, though the jacket and tie have been removed, the white button down rumpled from slouching on the sofa, one leg of his pants still left carelessly rolled up after biking here. It leaves him looking sloppy and soft and terribly young, and the smile he gives Ignis is puppy-sweet. "I knew I sensed a sudden upswing in the apartment's classiness quota! D'you need any . . . help . . . "  
  
"Not at the moment. Thank you, Prompto," says Ignis. He keeps his voice soothing, his movements slow, because like any good omega, Prompto has started backing away at the scent of blood, gaze dropped in submission.  
  
But to his surprise, Prompto rallies, straightening his shoulders and forcing his eyes back up to meet Ignis'. "No, it's- it's okay. You smell like that because you were protecting Noct, right? You had to- to-" he forces the word out, " _kill_ someone so that Noct could stay safe. So this smell is . . . I mean, it's not good, but it means you won, so . . . " He shuffles forward and holds out his hands.  
  
"Ha! Kid is tougher than you thought, Iggy," Gladio says, slapping Ignis on the shoulder.  
  
"I suppose so." Ignis obediently hands over half of the grocery bags. "These can all get put away. I need the rest to make you and Noctis a snack to have while I shower."  
  
" . . . snack?" says a voice roughened with the dregs of sleep.  
  
In shuffles Noctis, uniform even more rumpled than Prompto's, face patterned with the familiar imprint of a pillow. His eyelashes flutter as he yawns, and when he scratches at his belly the white school shirt rides up to flash pale skin.  
  
Seeing him makes Ignis hyper aware of the _scent_ of this place. It's Noctis' den, after all, and even with Gladio musking in the doorway and Prompto's perfume of clean laundry and sun-warmed oranges threading through the air, Noctis' scent is the one that overpowers it all, clings to everything like night mist: clove and winter pine.  
  
Ignis clutches uselessly at the remaining grocery bags. It's the lack of gloves that makes the skin of his hands feel cold and tight, he tells himself. It's the fear from the security break that makes him want to run them through Noctis' hair.  
  
The entryway is really much too small.  
  
_Definitely not meant for four._ Before Noctis can box him in, Ignis slips out toward the kitchen, making sure to keep Prompto and Gladio between them. Hopefully their scent will muffle the blood stink.  
  
"Specs?" Still groggy with sleep, Noct sounds somehow lost. Vulnerable. Are dreams still clinging to him?  
  
The best cure for that, Ignis knows, is pleasant routine. Get Noctis grounded back in the present with the smells and sounds of everyday life. He turns on the stove's vent, then the kitchen air freshener with practised motions, and starts unpacking the ice cream. "I had intended to make them for desert, to tell the truth, but if I'm to have a shower before making supper, you and Prompto will need something to tide you over."  
  
"You're making something for me, too?" squeaks Prompto. He's followed Ignis into the kitchen and has the fridge open to put the groceries away, and now he peeks over its door, his eyes wide and blush high on his cheeks. "Are- are you sure? You don't have to!"  
  
Ignis hides his smile. As much as serving Noctis is an incomparable joy, a fulfilment of purpose and self, catering to Prompto holds its own delights. "Are you not hungry? Do you not like root beer? Or perhaps you think eating is a spectator sport," he teases, lining up bottles of soda and pints ice cream and the mugs, still boxed. "You're a guest, Prompto, and a very good friend to Noctis, besides. What kind of servant to the Crown would I be if I neglect to give you proper hospitality?"  
  
"One who starves his co-workers," says Gladio. He sits on one of the breakfast bar's high stools, leans forward on his crossed arms to inspect Ignis' layout. "How come I don't get a snack?"  
  
"I'm afraid I was informed you'd be present rather at the last minute." _As you well know_ , thinks Ignis, glaring daggers at Gladio, at Gladio's smug smile and mocking gaze. The interfering behemoth is only bringing it up because he knows it'll remind Noct that-  
  
"They ambushed you," Noctis says, looking more awake—and more unhappy—by the moment. He comes to sit as well, one stool down from Gladio and directly opposite Ignis as he works.  
  
Ignis is swift to head off any worries about future attacks with, "Not a 'they.' It was only a single, rogue alpha. An unfortunate laps of security, perhaps, but nothing major."  
  
"Then why did you have to kill him?"  
  
Noctis' words take up the rest of the space in the kitchen, leaving Ignis feeling crushed, trapped, unable to meet his prince's gaze. Shame drags its claws down his back. Of course. How stupid of him not to realize the true reason Noctis is upset. Noctis would never worry about his own safety, but unnecessary killing . . .  
  
Ignis chokes back the automatic apology, 'I'm sorry' a poor answer to a prince's dismay at the murder of one of his subjects, and instead offers a subdued, "I'm afraid I'm still woefully in need of training. I'll be sure to schedule in additional sessions so that I can take an attacker alive next time."  
  
"That's not what-" Noctis breaks off with a sigh.  
  
_Not what I want to hear_ , Ignis fills in, ashamed all over again, worse for having made excuses at his lapse, worse still for the fact that he can't bring himself to regret the loss of life, only that he has brought death into Noctis' home and shadows into Noctis' eyes.  
  
Noctis slumps in his chair, obviously tired of dealing with Ignis. "You know what? Fine. You _do_ that. More _training_ ," he spits the word onto the counter top. "Gladio can even help."  
  
_Gladio_ never _helps_ , Ignis sulks to himself. _This entire conversation could have been avoided and instead he dragged it right out into the open. In my kitchen!_ , He stares longingly at the knife block, and for a moment fantasizes about taking a blade to that smirking hunk of meat. _Peel that fancy ink right off his back with my best pairing knife if I thought it'd make a difference. Or maybe make myself a nice cut of tongue sandwich._  
  
"Woah, woah, no way," says Prompto, blundering back into the conversation to rescue them all from ruin. "Iggy can't train more! He's already, like, triple A at everything! Any more and he'll hit S-rank, and then I'll be grinding forever to try and catch up!" He pouts at Noctis, blue eyes sweet and clear like a morning sky, his mouth a soft, pink blossom. "Time for a nerf, don't you think?"  
  
Noctis snorts, but his frown cracks at the edge, curling up on one side into a reluctant smile. "Two forevers. I've seen your farming setup."  
  
"Just! Because! I prefer to use characters I _like_ instead of sell out for stats doesn't mean I can't build a sweeper team if I need to."  
  
"You're also still using tier-two gear," Gladio adds, drawn in despite himself, lured by the pretty way Prompto flushes with indignation.  
  
And, oh, Prompto trying to puff himself up is really quite charming, his shoulders set and feet braced apart as he faces off against the others from across the breakfast counter. "It looks really cool!"  
  
Gladio snorts and Noctis rolls his eyes and the subject is well and truly changed now. Ignis could have kissed Prompto for it, but settles instead for providing him with backup, saying, "Evidently, Prompto prefers to rely on skill instead of brute stats. Skill with which he is obviously blessed, I should add, since it's difficult to field a team you deliberately keep under leveled, but Prompto manages to stay competitive. Oh _dear_ ," he adds in his best imitation of distress. He's opened both the boxes and is pulling out the cracked mug. "It seems one of these got damaged. Well, no matter. You two don't mind sharing, do you?"  
  
"Sharing?" squeaks Prompto, while Noctis manages a very articulate, "Uhhhh."  
  
"Two straws should do the trick," recites Ignis, happily back on script for the evening. He spoons in the ice cream, enjoying the sweet, clean, vanilla smell, the wet thump of it into the glass. The root beer hisses and foams as he pours it in, slow and careful not to let it spill. Cooking is such a visceral pleasure.  
  
The two straws he thrusts in are identical for maximum embarrassed fumbling when they inevitably get mixed up. "Take this over to the couch." He pushes the glass into Prompto's hands. "Otherwise Gladio will try to steal it for himself. I have to shower, so you have about two hours until supper will be ready. Use them _well_ ," he says, unable to resist a sly glance at Noctis' face.  
  
The car wreck of affronted teenage dignity and love-struck eagerness is all Ignis could have asked for.  
  
The pair make their way to the living room, stumbling a bit over their bashfulness, and Ignis wallows in warm, contented smugness for all of thirty seconds before Gladio ruins it.  
  
"Funny how that mug cracked in its padded box when none of the eggs broke," he says. He shifts chairs, stealing Noctis' previous spot so he can better get in Ignis' face. "Isn't leading the Prince around by his balls some kind of treason? Relax," he adds. "They can't hear us over the sound of their own dicks."  
  
The protest, like the cautious glance at the living room, is automatic, "You can't know that. Prompto is particularly sensitive to his environment what with being so high strung." Satisfied that the pair on the couch is too busy trying to cover up their puppy crushes with trash talk and video games, Ignis heads to the fridge to finish putting away the groceries. "And why are you suddenly complaining about my methods? You were perfectly happy to go along with them yesterday when I brought Prompto to watch Noctis train."  
  
"That was yesterday. Today is today. Also it was in a good cause. Haven't seen the runt work so hard since you got your cadetship in the Crownsguard. Can I at least have Cup Noodles?"  
  
"Make them yourself," Ignis snaps. "The only water I'm going to be heating is in the shower." He stuffs the bag of oranges into fruit drawer and folds the empty grocery bag, then starts rearranging the shelves. Prompto tried, but he really has no idea how to organize this fridge. You have to _hide_ the vegetables, or Noctis will be struck with horror every time he goes looking for a snack and wind up ordering dubious takeout at all hours in his efforts to avoid the reminder that broccoli exists.  
  
"Ouch. I didn't think you were that pissed. Something got you on edge, Iggy?"  
  
It's the honest note of concern that really grates. "Perhaps I am simply fed up with you sabotaging my efforts. Need I remind you that I am meant to relieve Noctis' burdens, not add to them?"  
  
"You're _meant_ to be getting him ready to take the throne, and fucked if I know how hiding the ugly side of our jobs is supposed to do it. This pampering bullshit isn't helping either. Tying his shoes and cleaning his apartment and playing matchmaker? You're his adviser, not his beta, Iggy," says Gladio, and the truth hurts all the more for how unexpected it is.  
  
_I should have been._  
  
He must have flinched, given himself away, because Gladio's eyes widen. "Is that what this is about? Noct's brought in a new omega so you-"  
  
"Gladiolus." Ignis shuts the refrigerator door. Does not press his forehead against the cool metal, does not let his shoulders sag, does not let his voice waver. He is a Crown servant, he is on duty, and so he is beyond such petty needs. "I'll thank you not to finish that sentence."  
  
Gladio's voice is terribly gentle. "Don't do this to yourself, Iggy. Don't twist yourself to fit a space that doesn't suit you."  
  
"That's the problem with being a jest of nature," says Ignis, and his own words are grey with resignation. "There isn't a space that suits me. The Cup Noodles are in the cupboard over the rice cooker. Help yourself."  
  
~  
  
The guest room, with its en suite bathroom, is just another set of spaces Ignis doesn't fit. Oh, it had been intended for him. When puberty had washed through him like a red tide and left his family's ambitions dead as poisoned fish on the sand, the Council decided to make the best of a bad hand and push to have Ignis accepted as Noctis' omega concubine in addition to his duties as an adviser.  
  
It must have seemed an elegant solution to an awkward situation. While an omega adviser posed a risk against future marriages of state, it did guarantee that the Prince wouldn't be seduced by inappropriate candidates looking to climb the social ladder. Any bastards would at least be of noble blood. And, best of all, Ignis was easy to control: so polite. So studious. So obedient.  
  
An omega.  
  
Ignis' lips twist into a lopsided sketch of a smile at the memory of a cold spring afternoon, when he'd been ushered into the Council chamber and informed of his new 'opportunities.'  
  
"You don't need to rush into anything, of course," Councillor Decimius had said, patronizing in her false maternal tones. "It will be a few years before Prince Noctis is interested. Still, best to start thinking of it now. You'll want to learn how to make yourself . . . appealing."  
  
Councillor Jubentius, lean and hungry as a voretooth, had been quick to reassure that, "I'm sure there won't be any issues. They're already pack bonded and such sweet _friends_. So close. You two shared a bed as children, didn't you?" he had asked, and Ignis had to work to keep the revulsion off his face, because how dare this man put his fingers, sticky with insinuation, all over the memory of those peaceful times?  
  
"You'll need additional health classes. Lessons on how to behave. Pity you're so outsized when the Prince is turning out a runt. It'll be awkward." Councillor Oppidius' magnificent white eyebrows had twitched upward so he could better rake his pale gaze over Ignis' body and frown with disappointment.  
  
"The right training can make him pleasing. I'm told he's exceptionally quick at lessons," says Jubenitus. His eyes are dark. They don't blink as he stares and stares and _stares_ at Ignis, as if trying to peel off clothing and skin. "You'll work hard at this, won't you, Ignis? For the Prince's sake."  
  
Ignis had known very well what they meant by lessons, by training. Once his body had settled into its wretched new habits he'd done all the research he could, had payed particular attention to the various rolls in which omegas served the Crown. He would be touched and opened and trained and used.  
  
"I'm always happy to accept more teachings in order to better serve His Highness." Ignis had told them, and it wasn't even a lie because if Noctis wanted- if Noctis needed- "But I want it made clear that I shan't push him into anything. If I become his concubine, it's only because he wants me."  
  
All of them, alphas and betas, men and women, adults. They had laughed, low and gentle and oh, so knowing.  
  
"Of course, of course."  
  
They had thought it inevitable that an omega in pack bond with an unrelated alpha would go looking for more.  
  
They hadn't understood as Ignis had that Noctis, so damaged by the trauma of his childhood, was barely a breath from open revolt. The degrading health of his father and the endless cold war with Niflheim weighed on him, crushed him, trapped him. He wanted, so very desperately, to be _free_ ; Ignis had nightmares of wild animals who gnawed off their own limbs in an effort to escape.  
  
Noctis must _never_ be pushed to that.  
  
So no matter what the Council said, what classes they sent Ignis to, who they made him touch and be touched by, Ignis would remain resolute: he would never, ever press his attentions onto Noctis unless the Prince expressed interest first. This most intimate choice had to remain exactly that, a choice. A sacred freedom.  
  
And now Noctis has made his choice.  
  
_I should clear my things out of here now that His Highness has begun to get more intimate with Prompto_ , thinks Ignis as he strips off the last of his clothing and stuffs it into the scent-blocking hamper. He's got several changes in the closet, in the dresser, for times such as these, but there's really no reason for him to keep them here. The Crown rents this entire floor and the ones directly above and below for security purposes. Ignis could easily commandeer one of the spare apartments.  
  
_Perhaps one of the singles on the lower floor. Gladio has been talking about keeping some of his own things here - he might be agreeable to doubling up._  
  
The idea grows more appealing with every moment. Despite Noctis' explicit wishes for independence, Ignis has guiltily indulged his own base instincts and maintained a piece of territory inside of Noctis personal space under the excuse of supervising a young alpha on his own for the first time.  
  
That was acceptable five years ago, but now Noctis is on the verge of graduation from high school and is looking to claim his first omega. It's past time Ignis removed himself to a more appropriate distance for a packmate.  
  
_Best to do it soon, before Prompto can make the wrong assumptions about potential competition. And, who knows? Maybe a little more distance is what I need to get regain my professionalism . . ._


	2. Chapter 2

Ignis squints against the watery gold light glinting off of black chrome and mirrored windows, and takes the Citadel stairs two at a time, buoyed by the idea that he's not only found a practical way to advance Noctis' suite with Prompto, but perhaps a way to gain enough space for himself wrestle his heart into submission.  
  
He left Noctis' apartment early last night. Though Gladio had tried to coax him to stay, Ignis had pleaded paperwork and made his escape. It had even been true - he'd wanted to start the application form for leasing one of those apartments on the floor below Noctis. That it left Noct free of the burden of Ignis' awkward presence was simply a bonus.  
  
Hopefully he managed a pleasant evening with Prompto.  
  
Gladio had had to stay, of course, due to security concerns, but the Shield is both well practised at romance and a beta besides. No threat to the proceedings. Helpful, even, if Noctis wanted advice.  
  
_Though with the way he and Prompto passed out together on the couch after a good meal, Noct seems to be managing just fine on his own._  
  
When Ignis had left, Noctis had been spread out on the couch with limbs askew, his belly up, trusting. Prompto was curled on Noctis' chest, sweet intimacy in the way he'd tucked his face into the crook of Noctis' throat, close to the scent gland to breathe in more of the clove and pine of his alpha's musk. The console controllers had dangled from their limp fingers. Their legs had wound together in a possessive tangle.  
  
They were both exhausted from upcoming finals and graduation and the constant drama of teenage romance, and seeing them like that, finally relaxed enough to slip into the peace of slumber, had made satisfaction wash over Ignis like a hot shower. He might not have been born a beta, but he can still perform his duties, can still satisfy his alpha.  
  
The warmth of his accomplishment lingers still. It's a good feeling. Ignis cradles it tight to his chest. He's going to need it for the day ahead.  
  
~  
  
The Council room hasn't grown any warmer over the years. Though light cascades in through the enormous windows and ancient braziers flicker and spit with flame, the heat is lost, flown upward to shelter in the ribcage of the cathedral ceiling. Here, the black marble of floor and walls and the wrought iron chairs leech away warmth, and the Councillors freeze the air with icy stares and chilly composure.  
  
_And then suffocate us with too much vulgar cologne. You'd think they'd be able to afford a sense of taste._ He has to fight back a sneeze as a whiff of tobacco and rose curls around his face when Councillor Bix settles into the chair next to him, the scent clashing with the fog of bergamot and cypress roiling in from Councillor Cocceius. _Or at least a sense of smell._  
  
But good taste takes poor second place to petty posturing, even among the most elite of politicians. Perhaps especially among the most elite, where everyone blocks their natural scents so they can't betray one's true emotions, and where one applies a perfume with the intent to dominate instead of please.  
  
Alphas jostling over control of the room, betas staking claim to their square foot of table territory. By the time everyone is seated the air is positively clotted with the stench of them.  
  
_And their over-inflated egos have blocked up the air vents, so we're all forced to marinate in this toxic cloud._  
  
Ignis does his best to wrestle his irritation into submission. It's the dread of an impending migraine turning his mood so sour, he knows. Breathes through his mouth and ignores the burn in his sinuses, the mounting nausea making his head swim. He can't afford to let this blunt his wits - it's precisely for that reason they done this, after all, and the moment he shows weakness they'll pull him down and gut him.  
  
They normally wouldn't dare be this bold. However-  
  
"I must regretfully announce that His Majesty will not be joining us, on account of his ill health," says Councillor Oppidius, a polite euphemism for 'having a relapse of organ failure due to the lingering Imperial poison in his system.'  
  
Everyone murmurs their condolences.  
  
_They sound like they're sorry His Majesty has influenza._ Ignis shuts his eyes briefly against the glare of the braziers. _Noct would be so angry. Just as well that he isn't here today._  
  
He doesn't need to be. Whatever this meeting holds, Ignis is more than a match for it, and for every self-important scavenger masquerading as a Councillor, besides. When he opens his eyes and finds Councillor Jubentius staring at him from across the table, Ignis meets that hungry gaze and squares his stack of reports, his own version of bared teeth.  
  
Jubentius stirs in his chair, his dark Councillor robes rippling like the mass of a Black Flan. "Filling in for His Highness again, are we? Pity you don't seem capable of keeping his attention closer to home. Tell me. Is that little lapse the reason you don't wear your badge of office, or was your incompetence what drove him away these past few years?"  
  
"Jubenitus," chides Councillor Decimius, still pretending to be the peace-keeping matron of their Council.  
  
Ignis can't even be bothered to lift an eyebrow over such a blatant jab. He answers with bland mater-of-factness, "His Highness asked that I remove the courtesan bell so as not to disturb his studying."  
  
What Noctis had actually _said_ was that it was 'creepy as fuck' Ignis had been told to wear it as soon as Noctis turned sixteen, and no wonder. Bad enough to have the Council prodding into every aspect of his business. To have constant reminder of the Council's designs on manipulating Noctis' sex life must have been invasive beyond measure. After that comment Ignis had removed the anklet as soon as he had gotten home and hidden it in a bottom drawer.  
  
"About that studying-" butts in Cocceius, and the talks begin in earnest.  
  
With Noctis' graduation coming up, universities and colleges in Lucis, Accordo, even Tenebrae have begun to send enquiries, and the Council wants to fight about everything. Where Noctis should go, what he should study, even if he should be allowed to 'indulge' in higher education at all.  
  
"A fancy degree isn't going to give him the experience he needs. Have him do a cadetship with the Glaives, put him in officer training and let him see what real command is like," argues Bix.  
  
"You would have us send _the only Heir_ out into the field to be shot at?" sneers Oppidius.  
  
"I 'would have' him do something more practical than waste himself in Accordo navelgazing. No one is going to care about your fancy doctorate in Philosophy if he doesn't know how to keep our borders secure!"  
  
"If you want practical then he should be sent to Tenebrea to study," says Decimius. So reasonable. So patient. "He can cement our alliance with this show of trust and renew his friendship with the Lady Lunafreya. Perhaps the grace of the gods," she adds, sliding the cutting edge of her gaze toward Ignis, "can accomplish what mere training could not."  
  
Jubentius, always a conservative, frowns. "Another alpha? We've seen where heterogenous marriages lead with the late Queen. Blessed as she was with charm, she wasn't with children, and that's what we need to fix the succession crisis. Keep him in Insomnia. I'm certain that with the right _persuasion_ -" His dark eyes seem to drill into Ignis. "-he can be brought to perform his most pressing duty."  
  
"Your vote of confidence is most flattering, Councillor," Ignis lies. By now he's been sitting here listening to them argue for almost two hours, and he's sick to his back teeth of it all.  
  
He's also running out of time, his migraine steadily approaching like a storm on the horizon.  
  
The sound of his own voice is now a grating pain. He has to fight to keep his volume at proper levels, his tone even and smooth when he says, "But I remind you that the Council agreed in a unanimous vote that Prince Noctis was not to be forced into a liaison. A vote which was ratified by the King," he adds, and takes satisfaction in the twitch that flitters its way through the various members of the Council.  
  
Their defences down, he delivers his next strike: "Further more, the King has also made it very clear that the Prince's future will not be decided without either His Majesty or His Highness' approval. So while your suggestions are _deeply_ appreciated, the final decision is Prince Noctis' alone."  
  
Eleven pairs of eyes rake over him in search of weakness, their gaze like the prickling feet of hundlegs crawling over his skin and through his hair and under his clothing. Filthy. And he has to sit and endure, expressionless, as waves of nausea begin to lap at the edges of his brain and sweat prickles at the nape of his neck. His saliva has gone sticky-thick, but he can't even afford to swallow it back for fear they'll take it as a nervous tell.  
  
". . . His Highness' Adviser is correct," Oppidius says at last, the words pulled out of him by the weight of Ignis' unyielding silence. "No final decision can be made by this Council. Yet allowances for the current circumstances must be made. You will make the Prince aware of his various opportunities, Scientia, and impress upon him the importance of his choices."  
  
Before Ignis can muster the energy to be offended at being commanded by a man with no power to do so, Jubenitus squeezes in an oily, " _All_ his opportunities, Scientia, no matter how he might find it 'disturbs his studying'."  
  
Bix barks a laugh. "Maybe if it annoys him enough he'll finally do something _constructive_ about that bell."  
  
Smudges of colour are starting to pollute the edge of Ignis' sight. He has twenty, perhaps thirty minutes before he's incapacitate. He closes his eyes, and compromises. "I will do as the Council _requests_."  
  
More laugher from Bix, this time at Ignis' slight to Oppidius' authority, and for a moment Ignis fears they'll keep him here longer just to force him to accept their power over him, his time, his freedoms.  
  
But no.  
  
". . . then I declare this meeting adjourned," Oppidius grates.  
  
~  
  
Decimius once trapped Ignis in a conversation for forty minutes after one of these meetings. She came at him with the excuse of concern that Noctis, then suffering from a slump in his math grades, would be able to properly understand taxation issues in future years.  
  
Noctis had been fourteen, and his father's deteriorating kidneys had seen Noctis in and out of the hospital on visits and unable to sleep for days at a time.  
  
Ignis had not said this to her. Ignis had kept his patience and his composure and his silence about Noctis' personal life as she forced him to endure her endless words, her concentrated stench of vervain. She had watched him, unblinking, and laced the conversation with the gentlest of questions about Ignis' own health. He was so pale. His shoulders were stiff. His voice was unsteady. Was he tired? Not used to the strain of a room full of alphas? Was the stress of his position perhaps-  
  
Nipping, picking, prodding, a scavenger testing to see if its victim was weak enough to eat. He had escaped in poor grace, rushed to the nearest empty conference room, and been violently sick into the wastebasket.  
  
He never allowed himself to be cornered like that again.  
  
Now he checks his phone, an ostentatious gesture of pure show needed to prove to everyone he does indeed have a schedule to meet, then tucks it away with all his papers into the Armiger. He nods politely to the gathered councillors, excuses himself, and leaves.  
  
He's young and he's long legged, and better yet, he's not yet burdened with lofty dignity, still low enough down the hierarchy that he's expected to hurry along on his errands least he keep his betters waiting. With this advantage he's able to move briskly toward the elevators.  
  
He's lucky. Today he's got one to himself, and he's quick to take advantage. Out of the Armiger comes the bottle of rescue pills, and he takes two and swallows them dry. Only then does he grope at the buttons to read the Braille, using touch now that his eyes are beginning to fail him.  
  
He forces his jaw to unclench.  
  
To keep himself distracted from the cold sweat making his shirt stick and itch, he draws out a can of Ebony from the Armiger, pops the tab, and starts to chug. The taste is off, the lingering stink from the meeting clinging to him and messing with his sense of taste but that isn't the point. Caffeine will help dull the pain and buy him a few more precious minutes before he's incapacitated. When he reaches his floor the can is empty and he's able to toss it in the elevator lobby's bin.  
  
Over the years he's developed a routine. He follows it now on autopilot, grateful to his past self for all the inconveniences endured, the lowering choices made, the trial and error that allows him to make his way through corridors without needing to see, to think, so that he can close his eyes and trail a hand along the wall and focus on swallowing back his rising bile. He can't vomit yet. He needs to give his body time to soak in the medication and caffeine.  
  
At least he's not at risk of meeting anyone. He's down deep in the bowels of the Citadel, a level only used by the Glaive for training, and at this time of day they'll all be out on the obstacle courses or working the firing range. He's got this place to himself for the next two hours.  
  
The comforting tang of chlorine reaches him and he risks speeding up. It makes his stomach roil, a blaze of acid in the back of his throat, but it's worth it to make it to the the changing rooms even a heartbeat sooner.  
  
He crosses the threshold and it's an instant relief.  
  
The change rooms are dim and cool and equipped with industrial ventilation. The wretched smell of the Council that has haunted Ignis like a lingering ghost is sucked away until it's a bare shadow of itself, still noxious, but manageable at last. He lets himself breath a little deeper. Swallows, wets his lips. Risks squinting open his eyes.  
  
Pinwheel arcs of colour ruin most of his sight; what little he can make out past that is foggy-edged. It's enough to help him orient himself, though, and he stumbles through the rows of lockers to his own.  
  
Then off come his clothes, gloves first so he can press his thumb to the print scanner on his locker as he uses the other hand to pick open the buttons of his shirt. Everything is stripped away as quickly as he dares, to be unceremoniously bundled up and tucked into his scent-blocking laundry bag. Next he grabs his toiletries, his towel and his bath brush, and totters his way into the showers to the first private stall. Each step makes his head swim. He has to sag against a wall and breathe, and breathe, and wait in a gamble that things _will_ get better and he'll be able to walk the last few feet.  
  
He presses his forehead to the cool tile wall. _I don't want to have to crawl._  
  
Tomorrow he'll have to go back to wearing a whore's bell. Let him keep the last of his dignity today.  
  
When he can finally feel the world settle back into solidity around him he takes the last few steps to the shower stall and begins a miserable scouring. He knows from experience that too hot and he'll grow nauseous, puke all over himself and the tile. Too cold and he'll spend a miserable hour kneeling in the frigid wet, his shudders jarring his brain and spiking agony through overworked nerves. Even setting the pressure too hard is a hazard, the sound of the spray battering his ears with a waterfall roar, the feel of it spattering across his sensitized skin like hail, like shrapnel. So he showers in lukewarm drizzle and does his best to ignore how very much it feels like being drooled on because he has to get clean before the migraine hits or the agony of a few hours will linger for wretched _days_.  
  
He slathers on the hypoallergenic body scrub and then grimly sets to peeling away the top layer of his skin. Chest and back and legs, limp cock, arms and buttocks, feet. Rinse. Washes his hair twice, fingers slow and careful and still he has to swallow back his whines. He does his face last and then stumbles out, wrapped in his towel, and goes back to his locker.  
  
He pats himself dry. Fumbles into his Crownsguard sweats. And then, still barefoot and clutching the damp towel to his aching head, finally, _finally_ , makes his way to his office.  
  
It shouldn't be on this floor but it is. Far from the Council chambers, from the offices of fellow politicos, from the meeting halls and from the Throne room. It makes him easy to bypass and easier to keep out of the loop of influence, marks him as an outsider and adds fuel to the smouldering rumours about his lack of true political power.  
  
Ignis had understood those consequences when he decided to move down here and had grimly accepted the price. It had been worth it to have this sanctuary:  
  
An ancient door with punch-code lock so he doesn't have to strain himself pulling his Citadel ID card from the Armiger. The door swings open and it's a wide, windowless space, the concrete floor softened by a faded burgundy rug, the walls a soothing deep grey, and the lights, when he flicks them on, are dim. Then he flips the second switch and the true treasure kicks in.  
  
This had been an officer's smoking lounge until laws were passed and tobacco usage in public spaces was banned. As such, the ventilation is better even than that of the locker room and, since this had been for the brass, was the kind of quiet only excessive rank and money could enjoy. The place had been left to languish as a storage room for years until Ignis claimed it as his own. And though it had taken months of backbreaking labour, several tubs of baking soda, and a complete overhaul of furnishings, it had become a place of silence and solitude and scentless-sterility.  
  
He's got his desk here, his few filing cabinets, a white board, a little fridge and a table with a couple of chairs. A leather couch, second hand, very old, and more comfortable than anything made by man has a right to be.  
  
It's to that couch he goes, the door swinging slowly shut behind him, the lock clicking into place as he crawls onto the cushions.  
  
He lies on his back, head propped on one butter-soft leather armrest. He drapes the towel over his face. He lets the first few tears trickle out in hot, slick lines to his temples. It's alright now. He's safe, and can allow himself the privilege of misery.  
  
Tears follow tears as the wretchedness inside of him slowly leaks out to soak into the towel. His mind staggers from memory to thought to worry in a drunken, agonized waltz. The Council, full of eyes always watching for weakness and tongues edged on both sides. The man he killed yesterday in a mess of scarlet and rage. The bell, and how he'll walk the halls with it chiming every step, telling everyone they have a right to look at him, to say to him, to want from him things _respected_ Council members need not endure.  
  
The bell, and Noctis hearing it.  
  
Noctis.  
  
Ignis' conscience pricks him. He's been too long without his phone. He has to check if Noctis needs anything.  
  
In pain and unfocused, his connection to the Armiger becomes a thin thread of magic, and pulling on it slices into his brain as if with piano-wire, streaks of agony crisscrossing behind his left eye. More tears flow, stickier now with the dregs of magic, and fresh sweat dampens his clothing as cramps grip his belly and chest and throat.  
  
It's alright. He's endured this before. There's a garbage bin with a plastic liner tucked against the end of the couch for exactly this reason.  
  
He doesn't need it this time, his phone dropping out of the aether into his palm, the magical loops easing out of meat of his brain. Though cramps still kneed his guts, his body settles enough for him risk pulling the towel from his face, unlocking his phone, squinting at a screen already at its dimmest setting.  
  
He's got seven messages from Noctis.  
  
Heart in his throat he taps the messaging app.  
  
HRHNoctis: prompto said yes  
  
HRHNoctis: to being my omega i mean  
  
HRHNoctis: i wasnt going to ask him until after grad but it came up  
  
HRHNoctis: going out tonight first date gladio said market district what u think  
  
HRHNoctis: iggy  
  
HRHNoctis: iggy something wrong  
  
HRHNoctis: gladio says youre in after council bullshit and prob tired take care dont worry about tonight gonna eat out  
  
So much in so few words. The implications swirl through Ignis' brain, a whirlwind of broken glass cutting fresh lines of worry into his face and his heart. Going out to the market district on such short notice. Will they be discreet? Will they need the car? Will they bring Gladio? Will Noctis eat something with actual nutritional content?  
  
It all seems equally important to his fuddled brain and he _hates_ that, hates being useless when Noctis needs him, hates being unable to count on himself. What good is he as an adviser if he can't be counted on in times like these? Is he so weak willed that he'll let mere pain stand in his way of serving his alpha?  
  
He sets his body in the familiar cycle of controlled breathing, swallows down his bile and his excuses both, and forces himself to pick through the needles and shards of meaning and implication in the texts as he types out his answers.  
  
IScientia: Apologies for being out of touch  
  
Noctis hadn't planned this. 'It came up' could mean a dozen different things, from casual turn of conversation about post-graduate life to Prompto being propositioned by another alpha.  
  
These handful of unknowns sprout into a bramble of branching possibilities, growing up and out into towering what-ifs that scrape along the inside of Ignis' skull as if to burst forth in a flurry of anxious flowers. He prunes it all back with stern discipline and types out,  
  
IScientia: Congratulations to you both. Please let me know if you have any concerns or there's anything you require. I will do my utmost to make this a comfortable time.  
  
Hopefully that's enough of a prod to get Noctis to tell him about anything urgent. But Noctis is unfortunately only a small part of this, and acid scorches the back of Ignis' throat as more worries, twisting, living things, spawn in his guts and stomach like tapeworms. Was the proposition witnessed? Will they flirt in public at the market?  
  
The moment they do the press will be all over it, and from there it's a cascading failure of judgement and disappointment and the endless whirls of political cogs as the Council gets involved, picking, plucking, scratching at every surface to find a scrap of something they can use, a chink they can work to breaking. They will not be satisfied with Ignis' blood this time, they will want Noctis, will demand Noctis, might even drag in Prompto in hopes of forcing the Prince's hand.  
  
Gods. Prompto. Imagine him in that Council room, in front of those eyes, trapped in that _stench_. Ignis' stomach lurches again and he has to swallow twice before he can send,  
  
IScientia: Sadly, I must request that you be discreet on this first outing, for Prompto's sake if nothing else. We wouldn't want him to fall prey to paparazzi before he understands how best to deal with their unpleasantness.  
  
Because he will be damned if he sends another omega—if he sends sweet, awkward, disaster Prompto—into the jaws of those voretooths unprepared.  
  
But the thought of Prompto brings in other thoughts. Ignis rereads the last of Noctios' texts and imagines him out with Prompto, getting home late. Then, young and in love, they will stay up all night chattering, regardless if Prompto goes home with Noct or not - the two of them will text or talk on the phone if Prompto keeps to his own bed, intimate despite the distance.  
  
_Noctis will be a wreck in the morning_ , muses Ignis in an attempt to ignore how it's no longer just his body twisting in knots, but something suspiciously close to his heart.  
  
IScientia: I'll make breakfast tomorrow.  
  
He watches the seconds dribble by on the phone's clock, ten, thirty, fifty seconds, two minutes, three minutes forty seconds. He fills his mind with the numbers because if he doesn't then something else will creep in, something unwanted and ugly . . .  
  
In his last text Noctis said to take care.  
  
HRHNoctis: k  
  
HRHNoctis: thnx iggy  
  
He does not say it again, no matter how long Ignis waits, staring at his phone, the knot in his throat growing thick and sticky, until it's impossible to breath through, impossible to swallow past, and Ignis has to snatch for the trash bin before he's wretchedly sick.  
  
~  
  
When Ignis wakes the scent in his office is not pleasing sterility nor wretched stale vomit, but of old leather, the tang of blade oil, and a familiar musk that has the tension running out of his shoulders, his neck, has him snuggling into the couch and the heavy weight blanketing him from hip to chin.  
  
A jacket, he realizes as he drifts on a foggy ocean of pain medication and sleep. Someone's draped a jacket over him.  
  
"Gladio," he murmurs, his mouth cleverer than his brain.  
  
He's answered by the creak of a desk chair, slow footsteps, and finally, "Hey, Iggy. You awake?"  
  
"Mmmm," he temporizes, not entirely sure himself. He cracks his eyes open and frowns, blinks a few times, and then slips a hand up to grope at his face.  
  
"They're on your desk," he's told before he can muster the energy to ask. Gladio's hand is big and callused and gentle, smoothing back Ignis' hair before pressing its wrist against Ignis' forehead. "You're not feverish this time. That's good. Think you can drink something, wash the taste out of your mouth?"  
  
"Mmmm."  
  
"Be right back."  
  
The sounds of Gladio bustling about the office lure Ignis closer to the waking shores. Thoughts begin to come into focus through the haze in his brain. Something about Gladio being here. Something about what it means, the reasons and the repercussions.  
  
It all stays maddeningly out of focus no matter how he strains, his probing mind met with nothing but glass-edged pain. By the time Gladio returns Ignis is reduced to frustrated growling, baring his teeth a little in warning at this person who's invaded his territory when he's in pain.  
  
"Hey, come on. Relax," says Gladio, in a voice soft as the leather couch cushions, warm as the jacket draped over Ignis' shoulders. His scent gets heavier, the bite of blade oil growing more pronounced, more comforting as it tugs at memories of long afternoons spent polishing nicks out of daggers and swords and spearheads in pleasant silence. Ignis squints up at him and sees the soft arc of dark eyebrows, the half-smile tilting full lips into an inviting curl. "That's right. Gonna help you sit up a bit so you can drink this, okay?"  
  
Ignis eyes the proffered cup warily. He does not want to move and does not want to be touched, but when he scents the air he catches the welcome fragrance of ginger and citrus. His mouth tastes vile. He swallows, and realizes how very dry his throat is.  
  
_Perhaps . . ._  
  
He struggles to lift himself, hoping to do without aid. No use. He manages perhaps a few feeble centimetres before he has to slump and give it up as a bad job.  
  
Gladio is all gentle care as he comes to Ignis' rescue, slipping an arm under Ignis' shoulders to lift him with an ease that's frankly insulting, and then he has the nerve to try and press the cup to Ignis' mouth.  
  
A seething glare and few snaps of Ignis' teeth put a stop to _that_ nonsense. Gladio sighs surrender and is patronizing-patient with Ignis' fumbling attempts to take the cup, and that makes Ignis all the more determined.  
  
_Over-solicitous betas be damned._  
  
In the end he is victorious, cradling the drink in both his hands and taking slow sips of warm tea, relishing the powerful taste scouring clean his tongue, his throat.  
  
_Lime, not lemon, with the ginger._  
  
A taste as soothing as the scent wafting like incense from the man now crouching before him. Ignis stares down his nose at Gladio, daring him to say anything about the fine tremor of Ignis' hands, the way Ignis' eyes keep wanting to slide shut, the way Ignis tugs the jacket close about his hips and thighs to keep the warmth close.  
  
Gladio keeps that pretty smile, his scent grows even heavier. He says nothing, simply waits, and so Ignis grudgingly allows, "You can sit on the couch."  
  
Of course this means Gladio takes liberties. He sits too close. He leans in. He slides fingertips up Ignis' bicep, trails them along Ignis' shoulder and then dares to lay them on the nape of Ignis' neck, all of which is only acceptable because moments later he starts to kneed the ropy knots that have settled there, undoing them with the ease of experience.  
  
With that dam breached, the last of the pain flows out of Ignis' skull, leaving behind the sucking mud of exhaustion, stray thoughts strung along it in a wrack line of worries. Gladio. Something about Gladio's presence.  
  
He's too tired for subtlety. "Why are you here?"  
  
Gladio is quiet enough that Ignis can hear the gears turning in the man's brain. Crafting excuses? ". . . I got a text from Noct. Figured I should call you to-" He shrugs away the end of that thought. "You weren't picking up, and when I checked I saw you'd been in with the Council, so I figured I'd come here instead and see you in person, check if you need- if you wanted anything."  
  
A text from Noctis. The crushing weight of his own sorrow swamps Ignis before he even remembers why, and so he has no chance to barricade his expression. To his horror he can feel his mouth twisting, his eyes stinging. A childish fit. He has to resort to hiding his face in the palm of one hand, the other thrusting the cup at Gladio to get it away before Ignis spills it and makes this unnecessary scene even more overblown.  
  
"Ignis . . . " A tone as familiar as Gladio's scent and the taste of ginger lime tea. It's the opening to an argument they've had many times before, come to blows over and blackmail, and right now,  
  
"I _can't_ , Gladio," Ignis warns.  
  
"I get it. I do. I just-"  
  
And now Ignis has dig through the muck in his brain for reasons because if he doesn't Gladio will push, and push, and, "The Council are making me wear the bell again."  
  
" _. . . Shit._ " It's Gladio's turn to bury his face in his hand, scrubbing roughly, dragging his fingers up to card through his hair. "Fuck. And of course it has to be now."  
  
Along with the awful details finally coming back into focus in Ignis' brain comes a slew of tasks and concerns. He needs to get himself under control. He needs to get back to work. "I need to move my things out of Noctis' spare room." His voice is steady, at least, but he's plucking uselessly at the hem of Gladio's jacket.  
  
He makes himself stop.  
  
"Today? It's a first date, Iggy. You got time," Gladio protests.  
  
"Dates are a mere formality when Prompto has stayed the night before. It wouldn't do for the Prince's omega to find the belongings of another in his future territory."  
  
He allows himself to close his eyes and take a moment to breathe, to swallow down the dregs of his inappropriate sentimentality.  
  
What comes next? "Paperwork."  
  
He ties to open his eyes, but all his energy is being taken up by the whir of his thoughts, the effort of pushing sound out of his mouth to explain to Gladio that things must get done. "I need to finish the paperwork for an apartment in Noctis' building. I started it." He can barely lift his hand to gesture clumsily at the forms on his desk. "I need . . . I need to . . . So I can keep a change of clothing there in case . . . "  
  
"Yeah, okay, I got ya." Gladio's hand starts rubbing slow circles along Ignis' back. It feels peculiarly like he's switching off each of Ignis' vertebrae in turn, the power running out of Ignis' spine leaving him slumping against the softness of the couch arm, Gladio's wonderful scent almost a physical thing, pressing Ignis down into the cushions. "I'll take care of it. I know what you need."  
  
Loaded words from a beta like Gladio. And Ignis will fight him on them, draw out exactly what Gladio means to do.  
  
Later. After another nap.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Prompto wakes to being slowly devoured by a duvet, with a knee jabbing into his kidney and someone's hair in his mouth, the scent of musk and pine and safety overlain with the incredible smell of cooking . . . something. Eggs? Cheese?

He sniffs. Hair in his nose; he sneezes and starts fighting his way out of the tangle of bedding and back to full consciousness, chasing the scent that's got his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling and he's got to piss, he realizes. And the knee poking his guts is not helping.

He gets his eyes open but that doesn't really help because all he sees is darkness. Blackness. Black hair, Noct's hair, because Prompto has his face crammed up against the side of Noct's head as they both try and mostly fail to share a pillow.

They're sharing a bed.

They're sharing _Noct's_ bed.

"Eeep," says Prompto like the calm, collected guy he totally isn't. His muscles try to tense so he can dramatically fling himself out of this warm little nest and enjoy the invigorating rush of a panic attack, but the combination of blankets wrapped around him and the fog of Noctis' calming alpha sent means Prompto just twitches awkwardly for a moment and then slumps back onto the mattress.

_Dammit, biology. Way to ruin a perfectly good fit of hysteria._

With his first choice a no-go, Prompto's got to do it the hard way, kicking his legs to free them from the clutches of the man-eating duvet, his hands busy prying Noctis' fingers from their possessive grip on Prompto's t-shirt. Finally he manages to gain the precious few centimetres he needs to slither out of the bed onto the floor which is, weirdly, completely clean when it should be covered in the dregs from last night: half a dozen chip bags and a couple soda cans and three pizza boxes, a carnival collection of candy wrappers.

Cooking smells. Clean floor. Clues. These are clues, Prompto's absolutely sure of it.

But to what?

. . . _I_ really _need to piss._

Right. Bathroom first, detective-ing after. He stumbles to his feet and out the bedroom door, and without the fancy soundproofing around Noct's room Prompto can finally hear the clink and clatter of someone in the kitchen. And. Ringing? Jingling?

"Good morning, Prompto."

"'morning, Iggy," he answers. More clues. He lets them sit at the back of his brain as he does his business in the bathroom. Priorities.

It's when he's washing his hands that it all comes together: clean floor, delicious cooking, and _Ignis saying good morning._

Ignis is here. Ignis is here, right now, in the kitchen making Noctis breakfast. A 'morning after' breakfast because that's what he thinks, right? How could he _not_ after Noctis texted him about Prompto saying yes to the whole alpha-omega thing and then coming here the next morning and finding them in bed together? Even though there's no bite on Prompto's throat and certainly no sex smell because neither of then had the guts to do more than fool around a bit before passing out, exhausted from the high of a 'yes' and a 'first date.' Ignis probably thinks they fucked someplace else, and that's even worse because, like. What if he thinks Prompto was dumb enough to fuck Noct someplace not okay? Prompto is pre~tty sure Ignis would poison him for that, and Prompto is _not_ confident about his own ability to detect cockatrice venom in his orange juice.

Actually, now that his brain is working again, Prompto can think of a half-dozen reasons for Ignis to poison him, starting with Prompto being an uppity commoner trying to get with the prince, and ending with Prompto's . . . everything.

 _Yeah, everything sounds about right_ , he thinks morosely as he stares at his reflection in the enormous bathroom mirror.

Not that the texts Ignis sent back to Noct said anything disapproving, but why would they when Ignis can avoid arguing with Noct's choices and instead stage a tragic accident? Yesterday Prompto believed Noct when he said Ignis'd be cool with this, but yesterday Prompto had been drunk on love and, you know, pheromones and stuff.

He'd walked with Noctis through the whirling crowds of the Tilmit district, with its endless rows of shops, booths and carts, the streets closed to car traffic so you could wander any which way. The throng had swirled around them, hundreds of lives too caught up in their own fun to notice a pair of teenagers stumbling into each other, clueless about how close they could-should walk, wanting to touch, distracted by each new bit of shiny junk they found. Every smell and sight and sound seemed to blast into Prompto's brain at max setting until he was dazzled, until he was shaken free of himself and left with nothing but the soaring joy of being with Noct. In that place, in that time, Prompto had been fearless. Invincible.

He's feeling a little different now that he's standing alone in Noctis' cold grey bathroom, stripped down to a ratty t-shirt and his novelty chocobo boxers.

 _At least Iggy won't be jealous_ , he tells himself, trying for optimism. _I mean, how could he be? If he even hinted he'd be up for it, Noct would be all over him. He's gotta know I'm second choice-_

'You're _not_ second choice,' insists the memory of Noctis. He'd been slouched against the old ginkgo by the back gate of the school, the later afternoon sun dappling the shoulders of his uniform and giving his pale skin a strange, gold glow that Prompto wished he could catch on film. 'Don't think this is some kind of replacement thing. You're _different_ than Specs.' He'd blushed, and it had made the bridge of his nose pink, and the tips of his ears, too. It had been adorable and also completely amazing, knowing that he was shy like this, sweet like this for Prompto, but the miracle was when he said, 'Even if I had him I'd still want you.'

'I'd still want you.'

An entire afternoon date and an evening of make-outs and a whole night of laying in tangled in Noct's arms and Prompto is still struggling to believe it, but Noct had said it and Noct doesn't lie, not to Prompto, not about something like this, so.

So.

"So you can totally do this!" he tells his reflection. "You just gotta go out there and not be intimidated by incredible, smart, hot, talented, put-together Ignis who's cooking the most amazing breakfast ever that is probably not poisoned unless it is. Easy!"

He chews his lip. Drums his fingers on the counter top.

" . . . right after you fix your hair."

~

When Prompto walks into the kitchen Ignis is just plating a golden confection of cheese and egg and meat cradled in the kind of flaky pie crust Prompto thought existed only in bakers' fevered dreams.

"What _is_ that?" Prompto asks, all worries forgotten in the face of such glory.

Ignis absently answers, "Bacon and ham cheese quiche," and continues fussing with his masterpiece until it lays perfectly centred on the dish.

"It's _amazing_ ," says Prompto in reverent tones. "Does it taste as good as it smells?"

Ignis spares a moment to offer him a smile. "That's the idea. Why don't you have a seat? If all goes as planned, Noctis should scrape himself out of bed by the time I have everything ready."

"There's gonna be more?! What am I saying, of course there's more. It's you." The hardwood floors are warm under Prompto's bare feet as he heads over to the dinning table, already set, and pulls out a chair facing the kitchen so he can watch the magic happen.

It really does look like magic when Ignis cooks. His hands, so fragile-seeming without the gloves, move fast and sure with the silver line of the knife. Chop, chop, chop and a trio of the cutest little melons Prompto has ever seen (including an itty bitty watermelon!) are split in half revealing orange and pale green and a pink that's dark and wet like Noctis' tongue.

Prompto swallows and tries to fight back memories of that tongue, of tasting it in his mouth and feeling it on his skin. He does _not_ want to get a stiffy right now, past the time when 'morning wood' can excuse any awkwardness, but watching Ignis is rea~~lly not helping the situation in his pants.

See, the thing is, even though Ignis has to have woken up crazy-early to get here and cook an entire miracle before Prompto even got out of bed, he still looks sleek and perfect as always, white shirt wrinkle free and every strand of hair in place. How does he _do_ it?! And then, even worse, is the way he handles the knife. He's- he's _showy_. A graceful slice at the air here, an extra twirl there. He's playing with a blade sharp enough to carve through a melon like it's a grape, and all Prompto can think is, _Did he move like this when he killed that alpha yesterday?_

The idea shouldn't make Prompto have to discreetly adjust his boxers gone too tight at the image, not when someone died and Ignis had to kill and the stink of blood had been so gross, but it does, it does, because Ignis is _dangerous_ and _badass_ and Prompto just. Wonders sometimes. What it would be like. What Ignis would be like, stripped of all his perfect clothing, long legs spread for Prompto to tangle his own with . . .

_Okay, new thoughts before Iggy catches scent of me being a perv at the breakfast table and stabs me for bad manners._

The melons have been sliced into a rainbow of colourful crescents and artfully laid out on a second plate, side by side in pink-green-orange-green-pink pattern. Something jingles as Ignis turns to the fridge. Keys, maybe? But then he comes back with a bowl of figs and four tiny jars, and Prompto watches in rapture as Ignis slices the fruit into little disks of whirled seeds and sweetness, puts them on a tray and then lays out the jars which are different kinds of . . . some kind of spread? One of them is honey for sure, the familiar mellow gold, but the others are moon-pale white, deep molasses brown, something reddish-copper . . .

Ignis catches him leaning forward trying to read the labels and explains, "It's all honey. Each one has been made by bees who pollinated different types of flowers, which results in a variety of appearances and flavours."

"Wait, so this is like, _gourmet_ honey?! Woah!"

Ignis flashes him another one of those smiles that make curved cracks in his 'flawlessly cool' facade and show the warmth underneath, then makes up for it by gathering up the dishes to balancing them on his forearms and fingertips, confident and casual as if they were empty plastic plates and not hours worth of culinary art on fine china. "I'll set this all on the table and then make coffee, shall I?"

" _Would_ you?"

"As long as you promise not to dig in before Noctis arrives."

"Anything," groans Prompto, half in love with this man who will both feed _and_ caffeinate him, who sails around the counter, a cheery jingle with every step. He's wearing his apron (of course) and with it tied tight like that it shows off just how narrow his hips are, how slender his waist. He looks as tasty as the stuff he's serving up which is not something Prompto should be thinking and especially not saying so instead he spouts, "You're incredible, Iggy. Sure you're not a beta?"

And Ignis, in the middle of setting the quiche down, pauses. " . . . quite."

His expression doesn't change. His scent stays steady. But Prompto, who is always, always, always watching for signs he's gone too far, taken too much for granted, notices the pause and feels the air in his lungs go heavy, rewinds his sentence and plays it back and realizes what he's just said.

More memories of Noctis whisper in his brain, 'People made a big deal out of it, like it was some kind of . . . personal failure on his part that Specs isn't the beta I "deserve," whatever that means. He never said anything, but he always takes criticism like that pretty hard, so. Try to not bring it up?'

 _Shiiit. Really stepped in it this time._ "S-Sorry! Sorry, Ignis. I didn't mean to, uh, poke at something sensitive. Won't happen again, promise."

"No offence taken, Prompto," says Ignis in that voice he uses to hide any actual feeling behind buttery smooth tones. The quiche is finally deployed centre field on the table, with the melons and figs in parallel flanking positions.

Prompto fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. "You sure?"

"Of course." He straightens and crosses his arms, surveying the layout like a general inspecting his troops. "Now, least said, soonest mended. How would you like your coffee?"

"Milky?" Prompto offers tentatively. He scents the air again, searching Ignis' body language and expression for signs of annoyance. He doesn't see any tells, and Ignis' scent is the same unfaltering juniper-cool as always, but considering Ignis' training as a badass butler and political ninja that means basically nothing, so Prompto is left on edge, full of a delightful cocktail of acid paranoia and sour fear.

_That's gonna make breakfast taste just great. Here's hoping the coffee will wash it down._

"Easily done. Good morning, Your Highness. You're just in time. Would you like your usual coffee?"

A distraction! Prompto eagerly twists in his chair so he can watch the rise of the living dead for himself: Noctis, his hair a disaster and his clothing rumpled and his eyes squinted shut against the glare of the waking world. He shambles forward in a winding path, bumping into the bedroom doorway, the wall, the book cases, until finally he collides with the table and starts feeling around for a chair. It's only when he's poured himself into his seat that he's willing to make the effort to dredge up words, and when he does it's a low, mushy mumbled, ". . . . yeah."

"Black and sweet it is," says Ignis and starts moving briskly toward the kitchen. He's still jingling with every step and Prompto is starting to wonder about it, glances at Noct and blinks because Noctis has shot straight up in his chair, suddenly wide awake and _furious_.

Noct barks, "Scratch that. I'll have my coffee with a double dose of 'what the _fuck_ ' because I thought I told you to get rid of that thing, Ignis! Why the hell are you wearing it?!"

Ignis stops. His back is straight and his shoulders are square and his voice is even and he doesn't turn around to look at them when he answers, "My apologies, Your Highness. I'm aware that it displeases you. Unfortunately, with your coming graduation, the Council has decreed that I am to make it clear what opportunities are available to you."

"Opportunities," spits Noctis, Eos' angriest echo. " _Fucking you_ is not an opportunity, Ignis!"

_What?_

"But it is." Ignis sighs and turns to face them. He's wearing what Noctis calls the 'politician mask,' where all the personality has been ironed out of his face to leave it smooth as glass and opaque as concrete. It's creepy and it's borderline inhuman but what's worse is the words coming out of his mouth in even, reasonable tones like what he's saying is normal and not, "I am a fertile omega, already a member of your pack, and a trained concubine. Taking advantage of my services would mean fulfilling your duty to breed an heir without putting strain on your newly cemented relationship with Prompto. I am aware the timing is awkward and intrusive-"

The sharp _slam!_ of Noct's hand on the kitchen table rattles the dishes. "It's not the timing that's the problem," he snarls, lips pulling back to flash alpha canines. "It's the old creeps trying to force me to 'take advantage' of a- a _friend_ , thinking I'll change my mind about wanting to stick my dick in you because some whore's bell advertises you as 'open for business.'"

"Courtesan bell, Your Highness, please." The only dent in Iggy's composure and it's a slight frown because Noct is swearing. Incredible.

Meanwhile Prompto is feeling both lightheaded and weirdly sick because even if he's only catching the edges of this he's getting enough to know he doesn't like it. "Is that what the jingling sound was? A . . . courtesan bell?" The words feel strange in his mouth, the archaic name uncomfortably formal for something he's used to seeing in porn. "Okay, so. I kinda need an explanation. In small words. Because I know what the bell means but not what it _means_. For Noct, I mean. And you."

 _And me_ , he doesn't say, but it looks like Ignis hears him anyway because the politics melt off his face leaving him looking human and tired and also pretty uncomfortable. "Damn. My most sincere apologies, Prompto. I've been careless about your feelings. Please be assured that this was a political decision imposed on me - I understand that you're Noctis' chosen omega, and will in fact be moving my things out of the guest room to free up your future territory."

"O-oh." He's not sure how to take that information. He's really not sure how to take Noct's sudden panicked look.

Ignis continues, "Unfortunately, due to His Majesty's failing health and Noctis being an only child, the Council considers the nation to be something of as succession crisis."

"Which is bullshit," Noctis cuts in. "They've got, like, twenty bottles of my dad's sperm tucked away in a maximum security freezer somewhere. If they ever need to make more of me they can."

"There is no guarantee the Crystal would accept a child born of artificial insemination," Ignis retorts. He sighs again and shoves up his glasses so he can rub the bridge of his nose. "Not to mention the legal tangle of choosing a surrogate. It would be much simpler all around to do it the, ah, old fashioned way, as it were. Which is where I come in. When I presented as omega the Council found it . . . practical to have me trained as a courtesan to cater to Noctis' needs."

"They _used_ you. And they want me to use you, too."

"I am your retainer, Your Highness. It is my purpose to be used at your discretion."

Okay, wow. Noctis hasn't looked so revolted since they wandered into Cactuar Crunchies and discovered it was a vegan restaurant, and honestly, Prompto's right there with him. Noct had warned him Ignis had a creepy way of speaking about himself but actually hearing it, hearing Ignis calmly talking like he's- he's some kind of sex toy-

 _Used at your discretion._ Prompto's stomach roils. Suddenly he isn't hungry at all, not when the food is a flaky-crusted monument to more of Ignis' 'service' and not when the smoke-stink of Noctis' anger is starting to clog the kitchen.

Noctis' voice is a bitter growl dredged from the depths of his chest, "I would _never_."

"I am aware," says Ignis, "and I have said as much to the Council, but I fear they are not in the mood to listen to my protests. At least we can take cold comfort in the fact that they aren't in any position to force the issue," he offers with an apologetic smile.

Noctis wipes it away with, "There's nothing 'comfortable' about them using you to nag me in my own home like this!"

And Prompto can't help but chime in, "Pretty fucked up, dude," because it is, the Council treating Ignis like an incubator for the next Royal baby, as if it's okay to do that to someone, to do that to _Ignis_ , and then trying to make Noct do it, too. To make everyone do it, belling Iggy like a streetwalker because Iggy's an omega and that's all that matters to them, all they think should matter to anyone.

The last of Ignis' expression slips behind the mask again and somehow his back gets even straighter, his shoulders more square, like he's being fitted into an invisible mould so that all of him is fake and blank and hidden behind the perfect politician persona and how does Ignis _do_ that? How does he just . . . erase himself?! It makes Prompto's skin crawl, makes him think of contortionists popping out their joints and folding themselves into suitcases, makes him wonder if this is something else the Council thought was 'practical' for Ignis to do.

"I see I have made a bigger mess of things than I thought. Again, my most sincere apologies." Then Ignis actually _bows_ , to Noctis, which is uncomfortable, and to Prompto, which is horrible, and he only half straightens and keeps his head down when he says, "I can only hope I have not completely ruined your morning. I'll take my leave of you, Your Highness, and send one of the Glaives to drive you to school this morning."

". . . _Ignis_." The word tears itself from Noctis' throat and leaves him bleeding, the life going out of him as he slowly slumps forward to press his forehead to the table, exhaustion in the limp dangle of his arms at his sides, scrabbling helplessness in the way his fingers clutch at air.

He doesn't ask Ignis to stay.

But maybe. Maybe he can't?

This whole picture is out of focus, Prompto too close and from an angle that's strange and new (and awful,) but he can make out the edges of something here, something holding Noct back, something keeping him from reaching out for Iggy when it's so obvious Noct wants to grab him, pull him out from behind the layers of nothingness and shake some sense into the guy until Ignis can see how totally _warped_ this situation is.

So, okay, Noct can't but Prompto can, right? Can say, "You don't have to go."

He's surprised at the sound of his own voice and so is everyone else. Noct's eyes pop open. Ignis blinks and actually _hesitates_. For a moment it even looks like Prompto's off-balanced him enough to knock his glass mask off, that maybe-

-but then Ignis shifts his weight. The _fucking_ courtesan bells jingle.

And Noctis. Flinches.

"I believe I do," says Ignis in his glass-smooth voice. He undoes his apron and folds it neatly, and then his long legs are carrying him out of the dinning room and into the kitchen, then out to the entranceway at speeds that are both dignified and faster than light, Ignis apparently able to fold space and time with a single frosty look. By the time Prompto's scraped up the guts to try another offer the door has shut and Ignis is gone.

Noct gropes across to grab Prompto's wrist. Very quietly, "Thanks for trying."

~

After what feels like forever, Noctis crawls out of the slump he's in - literally, his hands clawing at the table for leverage to help him haul himself upright. He props one of his elbows on the edge and his head on his hand, and drags the quiche closer with the other, fingers sloppy on the plate so he has to paw at it a few times before getting it to budge. "We gotta eat or later he'll be worse."

"There's worse?!" groans Prompto. "Lemme get that for you."

"Thanks."

Noct stays quiet as Prompto cuts into the quiche, serves him a thick slice and piles his dish with melon and fig. He starts eating as soon as Prompto shoves the plate over; the same slow, relentless effort he'd used to pull himself upright.

Then Prompto serves himself, and maybe if he was a better person he'd be unaffected by the mouth-watering scent of meat and egg and cheese, the sticky sweet juices that slick his fingers, but no, he's a teenage guy, a growing boy rotten with puberty, and with the food laid out in front of him, hot and golden and perfect, biology grips him with its iron claws and roars. Or at least growls. From his stomach.

His ears burn and his face blazes, he ducks his head in embarrassment because not the time, much? But then he hears the soft huff of Noct's laugher, breathless chuckles through his nose, and when Prompto dares to look sidelong at his friend he sees a smile tugging up the corner of Noct's lips.

Encouraged, he straightens and dares to take his first bite, and promptly embarrasses himself all over again with, "Ish sho goo~~d," oozing from his mouth in the kind of a groan he'd thought he could only make with Noct's hands down his pants.

". . . yeah," says Noct. He takes another bite. Chews. He still moves like he's underwater, slow and clumsy with the weight of the ocean pressing down on him. His face, though, softens in slow stages, the steel cables of stress easing until the crease between his eyebrows and the premature wrinkles at the corners of his eyes fade.

For a while there's nothing but the sounds of eating. Chewing. Scrape of knife and fork.

Then Noct says, "He wasn't always like this."

"Yeah?" You gotta play it cool with Noctis when he wants to talk. Any kinda pushing, even just _looking_ at him sometimes, and he shuts down again. So Prompto keeps his voice light and his eyes on his plate, his hands busy with spreading honey on slices of fig.

"Yeah. I mean, he was always serious, but . . ." Noct's voice trails off. He pokes at his slice of quiche, slowly picking it apart as if he thinks he'll find the right words in with the bacon and ham. And maybe he does, because he eventually continues, "He used to be. Warmer, somehow. More open. I know he used to touch me more. Touch Gladio more, too. And he . . . used to _want_ stuff."

"Seems to want plenty to me," Prompto offers. "Wants you to do your homework, wants you to eat your veggies, wants you to-"

"I mean want stuff for _himself_. Like, he used to talk about wanting to study astronomy at Lucis U. Or how he'd go into the Glaive and become a General and win the Star of Valor. Or just . . . how bad he wanted to learn to drive."

"Oh. Like, ambition?"

" _Yes!_ He used to have that. Until the Council fucking _ruined_ him." Noct crams a forkful of dissembled quiche into his mouth and chews, and chews, and keeps chewing, and Prompto's back to paying a lot of attention to his plate except this time it's because he's got the uncomfortable impression Noctis is imagining sinking his teeth into something a lot scream-i-er than breakfast.

So for a while there's more silence. More eating. Prompto's cool with that. Each and every honey he tries is and amazing and sweet and different. One of them is creamy-smooth and tastes kinda . . . flowery? Another is closer to molasses, the flavour lingering at the back of his throat. And this new one is-

Noct swallows the last of his revenge. "I wasn't going to go into this until after exams because it's a lot, and it's fucked up, and I didn't want to distract you or . . . whatever. And I wanted to give you a chance to back out if you wanted to because they might try fucking with you, too. The Council, I mean. They sure can't resist trying to fuck around with me. That damn bell," he says, a snarl lacing his words. "D'you know why courtesans wear bells?"

"Uuuuuh, to advertise business?" guesses Prompto, having a hard time with the sudden subject swerve when his brain wants to keep driving in the 'the Council want to do what to me?' lane.

"To let you know where your _slave_ is."

The word drops into Prompto's skull and all his attention crashes into it. He puts his food down and finally looks directly at Noctis because, "Slave?!"

Noctis' face is pinched and his knuckles are white as he grips his fork and knife. "Yeah. I mean, they don't call it that anymore, but that's pretty much what it is. Someone who has to do what you say no matter what. That's a slave. That's a courtesan. Because if they're yours that means you can have sex with them anytime and anyplace you want and they won't say no. They _can't_ say no. It's trained out of them."

Words won't come out past the outrage so Prompto does his best to mime 'trained? what the hell?!'

Noctis pushes food around on his plate, the teeth-grinding scrape of fork on porcelain a perfect soundtrack to this. "It's pretty much what you think. They take you at fifteen and they make you have sex with people. They don't hold you down. That's 'barbaric,'" he explains, flashing teeth in a nasty not-smile. "They just put you in a room and take away all your clothes and then have people try to 'convince' you. Touching you a little bit more each visit. Telling you how this will feel good. Giving you presents, and food, and alcohol. Over and over and over again until you say 'yes.' And once you say 'yes' you're not allowed to take it back." Scra~~~pe. Scra~~~pe. Scra~~~pe. "Then they keep repeating it until you learn to say 'yes' from the beginning."

"That's legal?" is what finally sputters out of Prompto.

"Tchyeah. I mean, fifteen? Age of consent, and you do have to say 'yes' before they fuck you." Noct finally drops the fork. "There's other stuff. Classes they make you take on how to be polite," (Ignis' beautiful words and unfaltering manners) "how to be pretty," (Ignis' sleek style Prompto's always admired) "how to please," (Ignis with his puns and his charm and his amazing cooking that Prompto is eating right now) "and . . . . toys . . . they teach you to use. Everything a good whore needs to know," says Noct. "But mostly, I think . . . they teach you it's your fault."

(Ignis, apologizing. Ignis, bowing to Noctis and Prompto. Ignis, leaving.)

Prompto lurches to the side, hand at his mouth and acid in his throat but before he can stagger to the bathroom Noctis has grabbed him with fingers like talons of steel digging into the flesh of Prompto's bicep and blue eyes blazing as he snaps at Prompto, "If you throw up, Ignis will _know_. He'll know and he'll blame himself because he, I don't know, cooked badly, or upset you before your exam, or-"

" _I get it_ ," Prompto gasps. "I get it, dude, now shut _up_."

Noct lets go, and Prompto twists to sit sideways, bending over so he can stick his head between his knees. He makes himself think about breathing, and chocobos, and the exam he has later today. Physics. He loves physics, he decides. Lots of long, fiddly equations that take up all your brain energy to remember, with all their special addendums for magic. He digs every single one out of memory and recites them over and over in a calming mantra of letters and numbers and symbols.

And all the while Noctis keeps eating with the same grim determination.

"I never got why you didn't seem to like his cooking," Prompto mutters. " . . . I wish I still didn't."

Noct shrugs. He's doesn't look at Prompto. Says, "Told you it was all fucked up. S'why I wanted to give you the chance to back out. You still can, you know."

"Uh, no. I can't. Even if I wasn't- wasn't _into you_ -" he stumbles, "-you're my _friend_ , dude. Dealing with this alone must have sucked. If I can help with that then I'm gonna. And . . . Iggy's my friend, too," he adds. "Kinda. I guess? I wanna be- I mean, we're definitely gonna be packmates. And we're both omega. So, like, who knows. Maybe . . . maybe I can help him, too."

Noctis' grateful smile is sweeter than any fancy honey could hope to be.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The ride to school is made way awkward by the unexpected appearance of Gladio in the back seat. He takes up enough room for two, so Prompto gets shunted to the front seat, to sit by the iron-faced Glaive playing driver and pretend he can't hear the muttered argument going on behind him.

"You upset Iggy," Gladio rumbles.

"I know," says Noct.

"You've got him really miserable about that fucking bell, Your Highness. Lousy timing or not, you should have-"

" _I know_ ," snarls Noct, the scent of his anger and frustration flooding the car as he musks in alpha display.

Gladio subsides with a grunt. Prompto stares out the window. The Glaive hits the air conditioning, and the smell of rage slowly fades.

~

The exam is paradoxically the easiest Prompto's ever done. His efforts to distract himself mean the formula are fresh in his mind, and with his background anxiety spinning its cogs over Ignis instead of test results, Prompto doesn't spend half the time second guessing his answers. He gives himself a revision, hands in his paper, leaves early.

Then he sits himself on the usual window bench waiting for Noctis.

The lull is . . . not good. The view from the windows is nothing but trees and distant billboards; the hall is full of strangers passing him by without a glance, boring in their uniforms, their closed cliques, their phone texting. He's got nothing to do and no one to talk to, and so the niggling worm of sick curiosity has time to squirm its way to the forefront of his brain, and before he knows it he's pulling out his phone and Moogle-searching 'courtesan training.'

What he finds is a hell of a lot of porn. Bad hentai and doujins and live action stuff. It's nothing he hasn't seen before and even jerked off to, but now he keeps imagining Ignis being stripped, Ignis being stroked, Ignis being bullied into saying yes and liking it.

He remembers Ignis at fifteen; the serious, silent shadow that would always arrive with the car to take Noctis home. He remembers thinking that Ignis looked scary and dangerous and boring, like weaponised algebra. Was Ignis already being trained at that point? Was that why he looked like a Kingatrice's less cheerful human cousin?

And when Prompto finally thinks to dig out a link to an Eospedia article he finds he can't bring himself to follow it because he _doesn't want to know_. He doesn't want to know exactly what they did to Ignis, how they . . . violated him. He doesn't want the gory details and he doesn't want the diagrams. He'll stick with porn, which is at least make-believe, filled with exaggerations and special effects and behind the scenes adult consent.

It's bad enough Ignis was forced to be naked for a bunch of creeps during training. Let him have some privacy from Prompto, at least.

_Or maybe I'm just too much of a wuss to face up to reality._

He shuts off that thought along with the browser tab, opens up King's Knight and grinds away at item drops until he's interrupted by,

"Hey. You're still here." Without Ignis to send him off Noct came in to school rumpled, and after his exam he looks ready for bed: his tie loose, his shirt untucked, one of his pockets inside-out, his eyes at sleepy half-mast.

Something in the tilt of his eyebrows, though, the soft suggestion of his smile. The way he comes to lean against the wall by the windows and stare down at Prompto - is that _relief_?! That, what, Prompto didn't head home?

Prompto rushes to reassure with, "Of course! What, you thought I'd bail after this morning's drama? I'm not the type to give up just 'cuz it gets hard. Quitters never win, and winners never quit!"

His personal gold medal for that is Noct's expression clearing to familiar pained annoyance, his voice dropping into a whiny groan. "Spare me. I've got practise with Gladio this afternoon and I'll be hearing way too much of that from him."

"Ooooh, fighty-time! Now I'm really glad I didn't ditch you. Can I watch? Snap a few shots?" He waves his phone hopefully.

"Sure, if you want." Noct cocks his head and nibbles at his lower lip. It's adorable, and since Prompto already has his phone out and pointed in the right direction he takes a couple snaps. Omega privilege. Noct rolls his eyes but allows it, then adds ". . . Specs'll be there," watching Prompto carefully.

 _Right. Of course. But it's okay! Think friends, Prompto! Think packmates and omega solidarity!_ "It's cool. It uh. It just means. That I. Can begin Operation Un-Belling the Cat-nis!"

It's a joke, nothing but big talk, but when Noctis gives him that wistful look with those gorgeous blue eyes and asks, "Think you can?" there's only one answer:

"Leave it to me!"

~

By the time they make it through traffic and to the Citadel, through security, down the elevator, past the second security checkpoint, down the hall, and into the changing room, Prompto has gotten over his jitters. Mostly.

Noct getting naked is a wonderful distraction, all that pale skin and lean muscle that Prompto is actually allowed to touch, and it's hard not to get too handsy. He sneaks touches when he can, slipping his fingers under the hem of Noct's black workout tank, fingering the curve of bare forearm and bicep, and of course, slapping that sweet booty when Noct bends over to tie his shoes.

"If I have to face Gladio with a hard-on, I'm using you as my warpstrike practise target," warns Noct, a playful growl adding a fun little edge to the threat, and now Prompto's the one who has to back off and think unsexy thoughts.

They head for the dojo together, jostling shoulders and snickering.

They shut up real fast when they open the door, the breath catching in their lungs at the flashing, thrashing spectacle before them: Gladio and Ignis, in the same basic black tank and sweatpants as Noctis, ripping into each other in a spar that looks more like attempted murder than any kind of fancy dance like Prompto's heard it compared to. With the dojo's wall of mirrors the place seems filled with violence, with blades and kicks and glaring eyes.

Grunts and snarls, the clang of blunted weapons, and over it all layered the jingling song of bells. Ignis darting in and out, spiralling around Gladio in a whirlwind of blades that looks to cut into Gladio's sides and then Ignis' hand flashes up and Gladio's head snaps back, his nose bloody from . . . a hilt strike? Prompto can't tell because Ignis has already darted away, hands shedding fragments of magic, only for him to lunge back with a spear in his grip-

But Gladio's already moving, shield in place to take the blow, and as the spear's point skids off to the side and Ignis is off balance for what seems like no more than a moment, Gladio's blade comes down in a vicious swing that crashes into the vulnerable fork of neck and shoulder.

The spear clatters to the ground as Ignis is driven down to one knee.

Silence. Stillness. Only the sound of rasping breathing, the whirr of expensive ventilation, and Prompto's heartbeat hammering in his ears.

Then Gladio sighs and dismisses his blade. "You're right. The damn thing makes you more predictable."

" _Blast it_ ," snarls Ignis, slamming a fist into the floor. "Ramuh smite the Councillors and all their meddlesome plans. What if the next time I'm ambushed it's by someone competent?"

Beside Prompto, Noctis sucks in a sharp breath, every muscle in his wiry frame growing tense, his back straightening, and Prompto could swear that black hair was actually _bristling_ , puffed out in angry display. The now too-familiar smoke-stink of Noctis' anger rolls off of him, but what's more worrying is the low growl Prompto feels more than hears.

Oblivious to his audience, Ignis bitterly continues, "I can't even hope to flee. Belled as I am, they could effortlessly track me, and any hiding place would go from bolt hole to lockup. At this point my only recourse is magic, and won't _that_ look delightful in the papers? Royal Adviser Roasts Another!"

The growling intensifies. Prompto tries to edge away discreetly, but he's forgotten the mirrors also reflect him - the movement catches Gladio's eye, and he glances up, locks gazes with Noctis, and says loudly, "'Bout time you got here, Prince Charmless."

Ignis' teeth click he shuts up so fast, and Prompto can see the red flag of a blush flying on those high cheekbones, draped across the back of his neck. He sends his practise daggers back into the Armiger and starts getting up, those long legs of his folding under him with uncanny grace. "Your Highness. My apologies for not having noticed your arrival."

Noctis waves his hand, batting away the apology as he stomps toward Ignis and demands, "So now with those bells you can't even do your job?" frustration giving his voice a rasping edge.

Ignis stands, still not looking anyone in the face. "It's true I'm . . . hampered. I'm working on how to adapt to the situation, however, and with Gladio's help-"

" _Don't bother_ ," Noct snarls, and from the set of his shoulders, the clench of his fists it looks like he's gearing up for some impressive protective-alpha stunt. "I can-"

Gladio's turn to interrupt, his big hand on Noct's chest, driving him back. " _You_. Can stop acting like this is your territory." The growl lacing those words is way deeper than Noctis' saw blade snarl, a rumble more like the shift of mountains grinding against each other, and Gladio could easily be Titan himself the way he's planted between Noct and Ignis, shielding Iggy as if from the Meteor itself.

It's a move only Noct's beta could hope to pull without Noctis immediately going for the guy's throat, and even now Noct's growl is rising to match Gladio's in volume as he demands, "What crap are you saying now? 'Not my territory'? The whole damn Citadel's my territory, this place included, so fuck you and fuck off out of my way!"

Gladio doesn't once take his eyes off Noctis, turns his head just enough to say over his shoulder, "Go do cool down stretches, Iggy. I'll remind His Haughtyness that just 'cuz his daddy's the King doesn't mean he gets to piss in every corner."

"Oh, it's _on_ now!" There's rush of air and sparks, the strange singing tones of magic, and a wooden blade spins into existence in Noct's grip. "Gonna beat sense right into that thick head!"

"That's my line," says Gladio. His own practise sword is back in his hands and he meets Noctis' wild swing, deflects it, uses the chance to ram a shoulder into Noct's to knock him off balance only to stagger into air when Noctis warps away.

Swearing along with the snarling, the squeak of sneakers on the wooden floor, but Prompto isn't watching them. Instead he's making his way around the dojo to the far corner where Ignis has retreated to do his stretches. And it _is_ a retreat. Prompto's a certified expert on hiding yourself away, and he is not fooled by discretion or dignity. Off by the door and away from the mirrors, directly under a vent: Iggy's looking to make his escape as soon as he's done stretching his arms . . . his, uh. His legs . . . .

 _Oh. Wow_ , is all Prompto's brain can muster when Ignis folds himself completely in half to do a standing toe touch, head down and hands flat on the floor and ass on perfect display to Prompto coming- _walking_. Walking up behind him.

This is still not the time to perv on Ignis (which, Prompto's going to have to make time pretty soon because this is getting ridiculous) so Prompto pinches the soft inside of his own elbow hard enough to make himself regret it, then determinedly turns his attention to finding a way to start this conversation going.

He spots a pair of water bottles nearby, a red and a black, and a couple of the Citadel's generic white towels, and takes a gamble. When Ignis straightens from his stretch, Prompto is there, towel in one hand and black bottle in the other. "Here. Figured you could use a drink after being run around the room by Gladio."

Surprise makes Iggy's eyebrows twitch upward and then his mouth tightens and twists a little and then his face smooths out into pleasant neutrality, all in a flicker of seconds. ". . . thank you," is what he actually _says_ , with absolutely nothing in his voice, and Prompto looks and _looks_ for any clue about what Iggy's hiding but there's a whole lot of nothing for his eyes to catch.

Same with Prompto's nose. This close he can see that Ignis' hair is dark with sweat, his upper lip and temples beaded with it, his tank top sticking to him, and yet he barely smells of it. Even with the vent directly overhead Prompto should get _something_ , but instead all he's scenting is a bare whiff of salt tang, the vaguest suspicion of Ignis' regular juniper scent.

For the first time Prompto realises that Ignis is probably wearing scent blockers. Heavy duty ones. Is it for his job in politics? Or is it some weird courtesan thing, like maybe he has to hide his scent so his owner doesn't get how aroused he is. Or isn't.

He pushes the thought away. Second guessing Iggy's habits is not gonna help Prompto build a pack bond with the guy - not when it has Prompto nauseous and gagging, and ignoring Iggy when he's right in front of Prompto.

_Okay! Time to start Operation Get To Know Ignis Better And Maybe Convince Him To Take The Bells Off._

"So, uh. Good work? I mean, I know we came in at the end but you looked totally badass from what I did get to see," says Prompto, doing his best not to watch the way Ignis' throat moves with each swallow.

Ignis comes up for air. Licks the sweat from his upper lip (sweet Shiva!) and shrugs, glancing away. "It was nothing special."

"Wha- You go toe to toe with the Shield of the Prince and you say it's nothing special?! I could never!"

It doesn't get Prompto the smile he'd hoped for, but it also doesn't give him the annoyed sigh he'd dreaded. Instead it gets him a delicate snort and another shrug, Ignis asking, "Would you _want_ to?" as if the answer is obvious, and obviously no.

But Prompto can't bring himself to say it, can't keep himself from watching the whirl of Noct and Gladio fight. The ripple of muscle, gorgeous bodies twisting and flexing is hot, but it's the confidence they've got in every step and swing of blade that's really got him hypnotised.

By the time he's registered that the silence has dragged too long and he tears his gaze away from the spar it's too late: Ignis is staring down at him with a faint frown on his lips and a weird, measuring kind of look in his eyes. " _Would_ you want to?"

Prompto tries to laugh it off. "Me?! Are you crazy? He'd squish me flat with one blow!"

"I didn't mean right now," says Ignis impatiently. "I meant 'would you like to learn.' You can, you know. As a member of the Prince's pack you now have access to the Crownsguard training facilities. Gladio himself could tutor you."

"But I'm-" small weak scared clumsy "-I mean, I'm nothing like you."

Nothing like the creature who, three years back, had found Prompto and Noctis being harassed by a couple of alphas outside the arcade. Hackles were up, teeth were bared in snarls, and Prompto was sheltering behind Noctis as he faced off against the bigger of the two alphas.

And then it was over because Ignis had come up behind the guy and grabbed him by the nape, hauled him around and decked him.

Except not. Because Ignis kept hitting him. Again and again, as Noctis and Prompto and the other alpha watched on in horror, frozen by the sight of blood spattering Ignis' immaculate clothing and expressionless face, not just beating the guy but _pulping_ him.

It had been savage and horrific, and Prompto was shaken at first. Tried to accept it as something normal for Noct's beta bodyguards.

But then Noct told him Iggy was an omega and, well, at this point Prompto's jerked himself off to the memory so many time he's lost count, driven wild by the idea of something soft turned so vicious. The idea that _Prompto_ could become dangerous (and sexy?) is . . .

". . . not possible. No way."

"Well, you certainly couldn't fight the way I do. You haven't the reach or the strength. That doesn't mean you need remain helpless, however. If you truly wish to learn, there are always options."

Off balance at this unexpected swerve in their talk, Prompto can't catch the words before they escape him, "Do you really think so?" Can't stop himself from peering up at Ignis, either, searching for any sign that this is some kind of a joke.

The only thing on Iggy's face is faint surprise. "Of course. You're young and healthy, and you jog every morning, which means you've both endurance and discipline. You've got a solid foundation to build on."

Prompto shakes his head, not disagreeing just . . . trying to shake the idea into place.

"Think it over," says Ignis. He's smiling a little. "You certainly needn't decide right away. But you'll soon be graduating, and free of all obligations. Now would be the time to consider the best ways to make the most of that freedom."

That warmth, those encouraging words. It's nice. So of course Prompto has to ruin the moment by asking, "The way you couldn't?" Crap. There goes the smile. "Sorry." He drops his gaze, flinches at the sight of Ignis' ankles which is ridiculous because he can't even see anything with those baggy black sweatpants in the way, and says again, "Sorry."

Fabric lifts, Ignis pulling up his right pant leg, and Prompto finally sees the badge of a true courtesan up close.

Up until now, the whore's bells Prompto's seen have all been in porn and trashy period dramas. They were are all thick, tin bands crowded with bells that chattered and rang with every shift and step of the wearer. They sounded cheap and looked cheap.

They're nothing like what Ignis is wearing. The anklet is a band of silver carved with a pattern of chains, the bells are a trio of fat silver drops, shining against the black canvas of Ignis' running shoe. And when Ignis shifts once, deliberately, the sound is way nicer, a pleasant accent instead of a yammer; a tinkling sound that sends shivers down Prompto's spine.

"Sorry." He can't think of what else to say. Curls in on himself, shoulders hunching, arms creeping up to wrap around himself.

Ignis' voice is firm and impossible to disobey, "Prompto. Look at me, please." And when he does, "Stop apologizing."

Prompto opens his mouth. Shuts it.

"Good. You can also desist in any tragic fantasies about my training. Despite whatever sensationalist articles you might have read on-line, it was not some sort of- of _rape parade_. I agreed to it of my own free will, and with full understanding of what it entailed."

Not rape, huh? Probably because Ignis is so smart that he figured out he should say 'yes' from the beginning. But Prompto can't say that, isn't close enough to Iggy, isn't dumb enough to offer truth with edges that sharp. Still, he's gotta try something.

He chews his lip a moment and then says, "But you only did it because the- the Council told you to, right?"

Ignis' eyes are narrow slivers of glinting green. "Is that what has you so uneasy? The Council's meddling?" His frown deepens. "Prompto, have they tried contacting you?"

Prompto's own eyes go wide, his mouth goes dry. He keeps getting caught off guard by the turns Ignis takes the conversation. "W-would they?!" he asks, his guts tying themselves in knots. "I- they haven't but. I'm not. I mean, Noct said they might try something, but I'm not anyone they care about, right?"

"You are someone they will care about very much," Ignis corrects grimly, and now he's no longer the quiet, gentle man offering advice but the fierce protector from that day at the arcade, his expression unyielding as granite. "You are now the Crown Prince's omega. Once they learn of you they will be delighted to try and harass you into any number of schemes. As would many others. Politicians. Foreign agents. Criminals."

With every word Prompto grows a little dizzier, can feel himself drifting lose in a world getting bigger and meaner and without any sense, where important people with money and power _want_ things from him, maybe even want to hurt him, hurt Noct through him-

He's grounded by sudden touch. Ignis' hand is on Prompto's shoulder, big and warm, the grip just the right shade of strong to remind him of how dangerous Ignis is. How . . . protective?

Yeah, that's protectiveness in Iggy's face. Gotta be, when he's saying, "That is why if anyone— _anyone_ , Prompto—tries to bully, blackmail, or otherwise try to control you, you must take it seriously and _immediately_ tell one of the pack."

"The pack?" he repeats.

"Noctis, Gladiolus, or myself. Whoever you feel most comfortable telling." Here Ignis hesitates before pulling his hand back to lace it with the other around his water bottle, and it's his turn to drop his gaze. "I . . . know that we aren't particularly close, and this courtesan business has made things doubly awkward for us as omega packmates. But please believe that I do welcome you into the group, and will do my utmost to- to shield you from the dangers of your new position."

And what can Prompto say to that, say to _Ignis_ , who's usually so shy about showing anything other than mild amusement and biting sarcasm, but who's going the extra mile to make sure Prompto feels welcome, make sure Prompto feels safe? "I- I know. Um. That you would- that you will. Look out for me. All you guys, you and Gladio and Noct. And I will tell you if anything- if anyone tries anything."

Green eyes lock onto his, fierce and demanding. " _Promise_."

"Y-yeah, sure. I promise, Iggy."

"Good." 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The Human Resources department for the Citadel is a block of offices that take up an entire floor of the right tower, dripping down into the lower levels in to allow for more storage and better coordination with the Crownsguard's Department of Personnel, located right bellow it.

As the Adviser and Courtesan to the Crown Prince, and also a member of the Crownsguard, Ignis is subject to both those powers, and has likely been the cause of more than one red tape tangle as the two departments bicker over priority of his training, his assignments, his privileges. Perhaps that's why Director Eudomia seems to dislike him so much.

She frowns at him over the screen of her laptop. Her eyes are obscured by the digital display reflected in the enormous round lenses of her glasses, numbers marching in endless lines, in endless rows, in endless columns. "It is a question of excess. Right now you have a personal apartment downtown in addition to the courtesan quarters in the Prince's own apartment, and you desire yet _another_ apartment for yourself in the Prince's building. Even if your downtown apartment is well under-budget, maintaining it is a needless expense if you'll be taking additional lodgings in the Prince's building. The Crown is willing to house you in comfort suitable to your station, but you are not permitted to indulge in frivolities."

Frivolities. What a word for the desire for space away from his duties and his temptations.

"I would be more than willing to pay out of pocket," offers Ignis.

"No. Your stipend includes room and board only so long as you do not have independently provided lodgings. You understand? If you can provide your own residence, the Crown is no longer obliged to provide you with one. As you wish to retain the privilege of Crown lodgings, you must chose: you may have an apartment downtown, or one in His Highness' building, but not both." Her severe skirt-suit is the exact colour of the black marble walls, the floors, and combined with her dark skin and hair she seems formed of the Citadel itself, an avatar of bureaucracy come to castigate him for the dual sins of wasting the Crown's time and its money.

It's nonsense, of course. Plenty of other Crown servants maintain private apartments for the weekend or vacations or discreet liaisons. But to be so crude as to bring that fact out into the open will do him no good in the face of Miss Eudomia's grudge, and likely a great deal of harm.

No one likes a snitch.

So he swallows down his protests, settles back in his uncomfortable chair, and pulls his phone from his pocket. "Very well. If that's the case then I'll cancel the lease on my current apartment. Will you be requiring a copy of the severance letter before authorizing the move?"

"Ordinarily, yes, but considering your service record, the Crown is willing to expedite the process."

Though his face stays a smooth mask, inside he's more than a little startled. A concession like that isn't what he expected after her rigid dictation of the regulations.

_Perhaps she's pleased at my easy submission?_

His refusal to allow himself to be led (and used) by his seniors in politics and his flouting convention by insisting on joining the Crownsguard despite his status as a courtesan has given an unfortunate reputation as a wild card. Did Eudomia expect him to argue? Sulk? Tantrum like a child?

He swipes through the pages of his calendar, a patchwork of coloured blocks embroidered with names and times. "While I'd like to move as quickly as possible, I'm afraid my schedule is rather full at the moment. Would the Crown be willing to provide the services of professional movers?"

"It would. And since you had already chosen your new address when you submitted the paperwork, the suite has been cleaned in anticipation and-"

He loses the rest of her words, his attention snagged by the notification that pops up on the screen of his phone. It's from Internal Security.

« update on intruder »

A quick double-tap gets him the full message.

« subject identified. report ready at your convenience. cause for concern. »

His eyes narrow. 'Cause for concern' isn't yet worth taking to the King or even the Marshal, but it's enough to make Ignis start rescheduling immediately so as to see for himself what's been uncovered about that crazed alpha.

Fingers busy, he glances up, "Apologies, but something rather important has come to my attention, and I've no choice but to attend to it as soon as possible. You were saying that professional movers would be provided. Could you give me a quick estimate on the time line for the actual move?"

"End of the week. Two, perhaps three days to wait, then only a day for the actual move. If you send me a copy of the keys to your current address it can be taken care of while you're out."

"That sounds excellent. Do you need anything further from me?"

"Your signature for a few pages." She hands him a digital tablet and a stylus, and watches, expressionless, as he pages through, skimming the legalese before he signs in each blank box.

When finished he hands it back to her. "I'll have the keys for you by tomorrow."

Much to his surprise, she actually cracks the barest hint of a smile. "Good. Should you have any questions or need further assistance, please contact me. A move can be both complicated and hectic even for people without your crowded schedule, and I am well versed in such logistical tasks. I would be more than happy to help you relocated to a home from which you can better fulfil your duties, _Courtesan_ Scientia."

~

Ignis leaves the HR department pursued by the sound of bells.

He's disgusted at his own unsettled emotions. He'd known this was coming. What does it matter that the first blow came from HR? He should have expected it. Especially, now that he thinks of it, since they'd sent him several insistent memos on proper respect for his badge of office after he'd first removed the anklet.

_I'd completely forgotten that. Could that be why Eudomia was so hostile? That she felt I was neglecting my position as courtesan?_

It would certainly explain her parting words and her pointed usage of his title.

Of course she doesn't know the bargain he struck, the line he must hold to protect Noctis' right of choice. No one does outside the Council, and he can feel the knots tying themselves around his spine, marking the water line of dread rising in him like a murky tide. How many people have been hiding their disdain over his supposed lapse of duty? How many more will feel it their right to congratulate him on his return to active service?

When can he expect them to start offering more than congratulations?

They are already watching him. The men and women he passes in the halls, betas shameless in how they rake their eyes over him, alphas twitching shoulders straight and puffing out chests in display. The occasional omega with wide eyes and open mouth, dazzled.

He sails between them all, careful, careful not to get too close, not to lock eyes, not to shy away. They must be as dust before him because anything else could be construed a flirtation, an invitation, and then they will do more than look. They will ask, and offer, and perhaps even try to _touch_ what isn't theirs, what isn't even Ignis', it's the property of _His Highness_ , wanted or not, and the thought of anyone else daring to claim what belongs to Ignis' alpha makes him alternately sick and _furious_.

And he's careful, careful not to let any of his distress show on his face. Politicians and whores share more than a few commonalities, after all, and one of them is the absolute taboo about displaying one's true emotions. It wouldn't do for anyone to glimpse the Prince's Adviser looking grim and unsettled; wouldn't do for them to see the Prince's pretty bitch looking anything other than pleasant and pleasing.

 _Foolish melodrama. You knew this was coming_ , he chides himself again as he strides down the halls of the Citadel. He works to keep his pace even, the jingling of the bells in pleasant rhythm.

It's easier than he'd like to get back into the habit.

_More childishness. Be glad you won't be sent for remedial training._

Bad enough he has a twice-yearly review. To be sent for remedial . . .

It's bitterly ironic that he falls back into that training to help carry him through this. He can still hear the endless mantra of advice: Slow down. Focus on the swing of your arms, the shift of your legs and hips. Straight back, head high. Don't limp even if the weight of silver drags at you.

Silver, because it's said a traditionally schooled courtesan is worth their weight in it. Years ago, Ignis, curious and with access to all of the Citadel's financial records, had discovered he's actually worth considerably more. The Council truly spared no expense for their Prince.

_It was all payed for by tax money, after all._

The enormity of that sum is the chain trailing behind his silver shackle. Perhaps it's not so outrageous for Eudomia to have resented his wasting such dearly bought skills. Perhaps Ignis should take a bit more pride in his value as a . . . commodity.

_But how much can I be worth if Noctis-_

He pushes the elevator button as a dozen pairs of eyes drill into his back and waits, and waits, with their gazes sticky, sickly, _possessive_ on his skin, the invisible tentacles of mindflayers seeking to feed. He must accept this, and with pride. They have the right. He has the worth.

The elevator ride is more of the same, with bureaucrats pressed to the sides of the car even as the weight of their attention presses in on him from all sides, and his walk down the halls toward the department of Internal Security might as well be a strut down a catwalk. It seems his time as a peer has truly ended, his life as a spectacle begun. So far the only ones to ignore him are the Crownsguard on security duty in the halls, but as he approaches IntSec he holds little hope that he'll find indifference in the department proper.

And so it proves at the checkpoint, where the guards on duty, previously inoffensive in their slouching disregard for the Prince's Adviser, their casual ribbing of a fellow member of the Crownsguard, now rise to attention at the sound of his approach, and when they turn to look at him their faces are solemn masks of professionalism.

The five of them confront him as a unit, with the senior guard behind the bullet shield greeting him as, "Courtesan Scientia." She nods respectfully, her beta scent strong and cloyingly protective in this small space, the kind of musk one uses to reassure children and decrepit oldsters and _civilians_. "We were informed of your coming, sir. Opilio here will be your escort."

Another woman in uniform steps forward, slender and small in the way of proper omega, no doubt chosen to protect Ignis' chastity amid so many hot blooded military types.

"I wasn't aware of a policy change that would make such a thing necessary for visitors," Ignis says in his flattest voice.

The beta's tone is as level as his own. "No, sir. No policy change. A change of status quo."

His lips tighten to keep back his acidic remarks. This decision was no doubt made by higher-ups, perhaps even Clarus himself (Clarus, gentle with his touches and so polite with his instructions and unable to _look Ignis in the face_ ever afterwards) and so there is no fighting it - Ignis will submit to being shepherded about the department or he will not enter. "I'm here to review the security reports from a few days ago. I assume there won't be any issues with that?"

"No, sir. Lieutenant Opilio will be happy to take you to conference room six to meet with Officer Caecina."

And stay there with him, no doubt, as chaperon to make sure nothing _untoward_ happens in the privacy of an ugly little black room filled with the pictures of a corpse. ". . . very well."

They don't even ask for his ID card, and of all the insults that one stings the most, his previous identity subsumed by the shackle around his ankle. The only comfort is that this recognition was bought with hard-won skills, not merely his gender, but when he compares it to how he's laboured to distinguish himself as a Council member and as a Crownsguard it's cold comfort indeed.

 _If they wish to see me as Noctis' accessory then so be it_. He strides through the checkpoint as if this place was his own territory because it _is_. It is Noctis' domain, and as his packmate it is thus _Ignis'_ , and Ignis will be damned if he'll let himself be cowed and shamed and led about like a child on his own turf. He has been here many, many times, and can easily find his way. Better yet, the quirk of biology that gave him the build of a beta means his legs are long enough that he out paces his escort without trying, forcing her to hurry after him at an undignified trot that makes it very clear just who is in control.

In HR he was courteous and careful. Here he allows himself the arrogance of the pampered creature they insist on treating him as. It means he takes up the centre of the hall, forcing everyone in his path to slide out of his way. It means he doesn't so much as lift an eyebrow at any nods of greeting, nor knock when he arrives at conference room six. He simply opens the door and steps inside, and takes a seat at the table with no concern for respect due the officer already seated.

Behind him, Opilio scuttles into the room to take her post in a discreet corner. Ignis ignores her, pushing around the photographs and printouts spread over the tabletop with one gloved finger to delicately draw out a single glossy black and white shot: A blow-up from a security camera. A picture of himself in the heartbeat before the white length of his blade slipped inside the anonymous alpha's guard and bled him like a stuck garula.

Only then does he lift his gaze to the face of the man seated opposite him. "You said there's cause for concern."

Caecina has to swallow twice before he can answer, his eyes a little wild, sweat sparkling at his temples. Though he's worked with Ignis before it was always through impersonal emails or in crowded security briefings, never the intimacy of a dim and private room. And never before did Ignis display himself like this, haughty and demanding, showy and showing off. "Yeah. I mean, yes." He clears his throat. "Just let me find the file." A decent excuse for him to stall long enough to regain his professional composure. By the time he slips a thick packet of papers from the mess he's almost his usual self.

"The alpha's name was Vel Sulla. A nobody. A recluse. Low income, shitty job as a convenience store clerk, lived in a two-room box of a place down on Lindblum Avenue." He nods at Ignis' frown. "Right. That's only a few blocks from the arcade His Highness likes to visit. And yeah, the convenience store is close enough that they could have met. But what's more serious is what we found when we investigated the apartment. Here."

Ignis takes the offered papers, flips through the first few and sucks in a breath through his bared teeth. These are nothing like what he expected, and nothing good.

They are pictures of Prompto.

He goes through them all in quick succession, his heart sinking further with every shot. They are all candid, many of them blurred or at odd angles, the framing centred on buttocks and crotch, with the rare close up of face. Prompto at the arcade, back a deep curve as he bends over the controls, pushing his ass up as if in offering. Prompto sprawled on an anonymous bench in the shade of a tree, his legs spread wide in shameless display. Prompto eating ice cream, a lurid picture of pink tongue and white vanilla. Prompto at a grocery store choosing cucumbers, the thick lengths almost obscene in his slender hands. Prompto jogging in tight spandex shorts and a scrap of fabric masquerading as a sleeveless crop top.

"So. The Prince's little friend Argentum, right? Worrying by itself. What's got me spooked, though, is the half dozen at the end," says Caecina grimly.

Ignis pages to the final few photographs and feels ice in his guts at sight of the familiar black stone and black chrome, mirrored windows and baroque art. "These are on Citadel grounds."

"Not just that." At Caecina's gesture, Ignis hands over the photos, and the officer spreads them out like a hand of cards on the table between them both. "It's the locations, the angles. See this one? From through the window to floor five, the little coffee space off the hall. You can only get this shot by being on Citadel grounds, shooting across the way from the parallel tower with a telephoto lens. This one here? It had to have been taken from the hallway looking into the room. Same sort of thing with the others. Now, I know this isn't directly related to His Highness, but I figured . . . "

"You were right to call me," says Ignis. He pulls out his phone. "Let me notify Gladiolus. How many other people know about this?"

"Right now? Us here in this room. Wanted to know if you want to call in anyone else before I ring the alarms. Something like this is gonna make a lot of noise, and I didn't want to drown out anything important."

Ignis purses his lips. "It might make less noise than you think. Let me also call in the Marshall. There's a number of things bothering me about this, and I suspect we're going to need his expertise."

Two texts sent. He gets a curt acceptance notice from Cor. From Gladio,

Shield2HRH: you want me 2 bring lunch?

Ignis shifts as the phantom of a leather jacket settles on his shoulders, claustrophobic weight he can't seem to shrug off. While it's true this meeting is likely to stretch past the lunch hour-

IScientia: It's not needed. Thank you.

Never mind the utter impropriety of indulging in front of Caecina while the man goes hungry, what really rankles is the knowledge that this is undoubtedly spurred by Gladio having caught Ignis in a moment of weakness a few days ago, and now is allowing his beta instincts to overrule work etiquette and common sense both. As if Ignis isn't perfectly capable of requesting catering from the palace staff if he's truly hungry.

Shield2HRH: but do you WANT?

Shield2HRH: will bring ebony 2

IScientia: yes

types Ignis before his brain has a chance to catch up with his addiction, his fingers pressing 'send' out of reflex. Then,

IScientia: Wait.

Shield2HRH: 2 la8

This is an official chat app and a Crown-owned phone and _there are witnesses_ , and so Ignis does not swear, snarl, or text anything of what he's actually thinking about Gladio's underhanded coddling. Instead he sets the phone aside and turns his attention to dealing with the kujata in the room - the lieutenant who's been exposed to information above her pay grade.

He shifts in his chair so he can better study Lieutenant Opilio as she does her best to hold up the wall. His fingers laced in his lap, he watches, expressionless, as she slowly loses composure under the pressure of his attention. Too easy to read, too easy to spook. She must have only been promoted recently after a year of guarding doors. Though she might not have put together the significance of what she's just heard, if she were to repeat it . . .

And so now he must decide. Does he keep her, useless chaperon that she is, and allow her to hear the full scope of what this suggests, or does he rid himself of her? She could very well be a spy. On the other hand, they will likely need assistance in digging out the truth of this situation, and better to keep the number of people in on the secret to a minimum.

He nods slowly. Yes, he's decided, though he keeps his gaze on her as he orders, "Lieutenant Opilio, you are forbidden from recording, reporting, or otherwise disseminating any information about what you hear or see in this meeting," searching for any tells that would indicate weakness or rebelliousness.

Her pale eyes flash wide for a heartbeat before her face smooths out, training taking over to give her a veneer of professionalism. "Yessir. Understood."

Ignis sighs. It will have to do. At Caecina's raised eyebrow, he shakes his head and taps his phone. "Let's wait for explanations until everyone is here. In the meantime, show me the reports on the rest of this 'Vel Sulla's ' apartment."

~

It doesn't take long for Gladiolus and Cor to arrive.

They come in together, the Marshal holding open the door for Gladio who has his hands full, a can of Ebony in one hand, a bagel and lox in the other. These are deposited before Ignis with mock solemnity, garnished with an elaborate bow, before Gladio takes his seat.

Ignis has to work to keep a straight face. "Thank you ever so much for checking for poison, Gladiolus," he says, peering at the enormous bite taken out of the bagel.

"He ate two of those sandwiches on the way here and took a bite out of that one before he remembered it was for you," Cor reports, dust dry. He seats himself opposite Ignis, takes the folder of pictures Caecina offers, starts paging through the glossy shots.

Unashamed, Gladio shrugs. "I was hungry."

And with that, any lingering irritation Ignis feels fades like morning mist. Not so much coddling, then, as a favour for a friend while getting something for himself. He finally lets himself smile at Gladio. "It's probably just as well. We're likely to be here for a while."

He fills the two of them in on the events of the original attack, then motions to Officer Caecina to take up the thread, who repeats what he told Ignis. Scowls all around before Caecina is even halfway through his dissection of the photos.

"Alright. It's obvious we have a leak in security," says Cor when everything has been reported. "But why bring this to me? It seems like a standard IntSec issue. While His Highness' friend is involved, that seems more like a coincidence than malice toward the Crown."

Ignis shakes his head. "You're thinking of Prompto as a noble's child, Marshal. He's a commoner, with a commoner's habits. He jogs in Materia Park every morning. He frequents public arcades, goes grocery shopping, visits industrial art galleries in the dock district. There are hundreds of places where he's alone and unguarded amid strangers. So why try for an ambush in the secured underground parking lot of the Prince's apartment building?"

"You mean it was an indirect attack," Cor muses. "Yes, I can see that. A strike against His Highness' packmate in Royal territory would do a lot to discredit both the Crown and Prince Noctis."

Gladio frowns, scepticism lifting his brows. "Aren't you two going a bit fast? Seems to me this is nothing more than a creep bribing someone on the inside to get him naughty pictures." He snorts and crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "What with how close Prompto is to Noct, the guy probably worked himself into a frenzy of jealous lust. Enough alpha hormones will fry anyone's common sense, and I remember how you smelt that night after the attack, Iggy - he was putting out enough to marinate a platoon in his bad decisions. The parking lot was probably just a quirk of fate, luck, whatever."

"Security arrived in under six minutes, Glaive investigation team and forensic clean up crew included," says Ignis. "At the time I was inclined to put it down to professionalism, but now?"

"I made it in four," Gladio counters.

"You live a block away. Officer Caecina, how easy would it be for security to make that time?"

Caecina rubs at his jaw, the stubble rasping against his callused fingers. "Six minutes? I could see the investigation team, sure, but forensic cleanup? Nu-uh. They don't ever deploy that fast. I mean, why bother? The mess don't run away. So unless there was some lucky coincidence . . . "

"Let me check the roster and time tables," says Cor, pulling out his phone.

Ignis follows suit, bringing up his call history from that day. "I'd appreciate you checking your phone as well, Gladiolus. Let's see if we can dig up any discrepancies."

The four of them start picking through the tangled skeins of reports and schedules, phone calls and text messages. Opilio is soon pressed into service at the whiteboard making a laboriously detailed set of timelines, while Cor dictates the recorded schedules of all the Glaive involved and Ignis and Caecina page through reports, Gladio stuck with going through everyone else's phone records as well as his own.

In the end what what they sift from the chaff is a few precious facts.

Cor scowls at the board. "So. Looks like they really did mobilized the forensics unit before you called in the Code 19, Ignis."

"Bastards were sly about it, too," says Caecina. "Calling in a fake incident nearby, then co-opting the forensics unit to a higher priority when your call came in. Why only five minutes ahead, though? Seems tight."

Gladio tosses away the report page detailing that false incident. "You gotta ask? It's because Iggy showed up and ruined their fancy-ass plan. Nothing blows up quite like a ruined ambush." He jabs a finger at the board. "Five minutes is just enough time to realize Ignis has arrived, watch him get out of his car and head toward the elevator, and scramble for damage control."

"A quick thinker, but not a clear one," says Cor. "They'd have been better off letting things lie." He smiles then, bitter and sour. "No experience. A new hunt, not the cockatrice I've been tracking all these years."

Not the Niflheim agents who poisoned the King over a decade ago, he means, and Ignis nods slowly in agreement. "This does feel like a new player. Someone who overreached themselves with a complicated bit of faraddidle that sounded good on paper, then panicked when reality jostled their card castle."

Caecina picks up the report Gladio tossed aside and skims it rapidly. "Green, maybe, but they got a lot of pull to launch this fake. It isn't a simple false flag, this is a genuine incident report. Times, descriptions, shots fired, suspected involvement of diplomatic personnel who we known were in the area at that time. Someone had access to a lot of intel to make this."

"But not my schedule, or they'd have known far ahead of time that I was on my way to his Highness' apartment," says Ignis.

"So that puts at least one of 'em at about security level Red. I'll start pulling names." Caecina gropes through the detritus of paper, photographs and reports and lists and maps and graphs, and unearths a battered black Glaive tablet, its screen grudgingly coming to life after a few insistent taps at the smudged glass.

Cor sets his phone aside and crosses his arms, settling back into his chair. "It's a start. I'll be able to do some cross-referencing from there. In the meantime, what do you two suggest we do about security for the Prince?"

"Whatever we do, it must be as non-intrusive as possible, or His Highness with fight it tooth and nail," says Ignis. He rubs at his temples, already anticipating the sulking, the snarling, the alpha posturing over independence.

The silence, as Noctis turns away and turns inward, betrayed by Ignis' inability to safeguard whatever scraps of freedom Noctis has managed to scavenge out of the wreckage that politics has made of his life.

Gladio bares his teeth, the tang of hot metal layered over burning oil starting to seep from his skin. "Let him whine. These bastards knew Noct was there with Prompto after they decided to skip the arcade on a fucking _whim_. That means either heavy surveillance or someone in Noct's personal detail leaking intel, and the last thing we need is another poisoning when our backs are turned. Or worse, that these assholes try to be clever again. We were lucky it was you caught in the ambush, Iggy. Can you imagine what would have happened if it had been a civilian? And what if the next psycho they pick for their catspaw chooses someplace more public to lose his shit? Mass shooting, a gas attack, bombings . . ."

The stink of rage deepens. Ignis' stomach roils and he discreetly sets his sandwich aside. The smell of smoked fish is an awful mix with Gladio's anger. "I didn't say we should let things be. I merely believe we should be diplomatic about this. Since these people went for an indirect attack by trying to discredit His Highness instead of harming him physically, I don't believe we need to worry about mad bombers or other extreme scenarios. For now, we two should be sufficient as long as we're on guard. And as I'll already be moving into His Highness' building-"

There's a smothered squeak from Opilio's direction.

"-why don't you move in with me, Gladio? It'll be a lower floor-"

"It's on the same floor," says Gladio.

Ignis pauses. His mind flashes back to the lodging application form. He was certain that he'd asked for floor twenty five . . . but he had never finished filling out those forms, he realizes. He'd had that migraine, and then Gladio had come and had been so thoughtful, so considerate, had said,

_"I'll take care of it. I know what you need."_

and like a fool, Ignis had allowed himself to trust. Then, this morning the text from Caecina had interrupted the meeting in HR, and Ignis had again missed his chance to review the application, and so now-

"It's the apartment directly opposite from Noct's," Gladio continues, and now the air is filled with the same leather and mineral oil as that afternoon when Ignis was so very sick, Gladio musking his beta scent in an attempt to placate, his shoulders hunched and his gaze firmly on the tabletop.

Ignis says nothing, letting, no, _willing_ the silence to linger, to drag on and on, stretching this moment into a distorted strip of misery with which to choke whatever excuses Gladio was going to make, even as Ignis' gaze bores into the side of Gladio's head to try and drill his opinion of this bit of chicanery into Gladio's brain. No wonder Eudomia had been so pleased about Ignis trying to 'better fulfil his duties.' Moving to live so close to his alpha can only be read as an open invitation!

". . . then you should definitely move in with me," Ignis eventually says. It's his blandest voice, and it's enough to trick Gladio into glancing up. "It would make things _most_ convenient."

'Like your _murder_ ,' Ignis' promises with his eyes.

Gladio winces.

"And since you're always so very eager to be helpful, there's something else you can do."

"Yeah?" says Gladio to the tabletop.

This time when Ignis speaks, it's with nothing but grim sincerity. "Teach Prompto self-defence. These people saw him as a soft target before, they might try for him again. We can look into getting him a guard once he officially joins His Highness' pack, but until then we have to keep him alive, and the best way to do that is to make sure he can defend himself even if we aren't there."

Because they _were_ lucky that it was Ignis caught in that ambush. And luck is nothing to count on.


	6. Chapter 6

Ignis, intending to give Noctis some space for a few days before the move, texts him notification that the Glaive will be picking him up again that morning. It's not much, but at least he won't be forced to see Ignis before they become neighbours and all pretence of Noctis' normal life is shattered.

Noctis' reply is a picture of Cup Noodles and the caption, « brkfst »

IScientia: I'll be there in ten minutes. DO NOT eat that.

HRHNoctis: k 

Breakfast is. Not good. It isn't the disaster of a few days ago, however, and so Ignis allows himself tentative optimism as he sets down a plate of fried eggs, sunny side up, sprinkled with chives and sesame seeds, and with fingers of toast ranged on the side for dipping in the runny yolks.

Noctis eats it with the same mechanical motions as always, his hands and mouth working in steady rhythm. His gaze, however, clings to Ignis, following him as he moves about the kitchen, the living room, tidying up discarded candy wrappers, replacing books on shelves, putting stray cups into the dishwasher. And all the while every jingle of the courtesan bells digs the curl of Noctis' frown a little deeper.

"When are you moving out?" Noctis asks his toast.

Ignis finishes wiping down the kitchen counter. "In a few days. HR has been gracious enough to coordinate things for me, so there should be no interruption of my duties." He debates about telling Noctis that the new address is only a few feet away from this one but- no. Noctis is already in a foul mood. Best instead to smooth troubled waters with a judicious application of oil. "You'll have the place to yourself at last. Of course, only so long as you wish. You're free to install-" Prompto "-an appropriate omega or beta in there to keep you company."

"Thought I already had an 'appropriate' omega in there. Council approved, even."

The weight of his own existence settles across Ignis' shoulders, heavy with the knowledge of what an imposition he has been on Noctis' freedom. "The Council approves of many things irrespective of the wishes of the people involved," he says quietly, a poor excuse and worse apology. He sets the sponge back on the edge of the sink. "One is often forced to- to _compromise_ when they get involved. Yet, there are still choices that can be made for oneself. It's rather poor consolation for all the restrictions," he admits, "but I hope that you can still appreciate that minor freedom, meagre as it is."

" . . . yeah. Yeah, I get it," says Noctis, and drops the subject along with his fork, to clatter and rattle in his empty plate.

~

The drive to school is painfully quiet, Noctis as wilted as the lettuce Ignis had cleaned out of the fridge. The only sound is the drum of rain on the car hood, the hiss of tires through water, the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers.

Ignis glances in the rear view mirror to see Noctis breathing on the window, drawing squiggle-fish in the condensation.

"Are you still taking Prompto to the aquarium this afternoon?" Ignis asks.

"Maybe. That a problem?"

"No," says Ignis, choosing to let the word stand on its own instead of propping it up with commentary on schedules and security details. There's been too much of that already this morning. "Will you want me to come make dinner?"

The car is its own tiny world, hemmed in by walls of grey water, the air close and too-hot.

Noctis still somehow seems so cold, so far away when he answers, "Whatever."

~

By the time Ignis reaches the Citadel, a chill has settled into his bones. The underground parking lot feels especially unpleasant, damp and dark and empty, the sound of his footfalls bouncing off the walls in odd, angular echoes, pierced by the bright tones of his bells.

His mood isn't improved by the notification that pops up on his phone as he's heading toward the elevators:

« Emergency meeting in room 165 - flooding »

The perennial danger for an island city. He banishes his phone into the Armiger and picks up his pace. It makes his bells jingle like the tags of a pet coming to heel ands he grits his teeth in anticipation of today's fight for his dignity.

And it _will_ be a fight, he knows, because that notification wasn't sent to him via the Council alert system. It was one of his backups, a subroutine tied into Citadel functions concerning the Royal Purse: Prince Noctis often contributes his personal funds to alleviate disaster situations, and Ignis is his designated representative in such matters.

_They're trying to circumvent me again. I'll have to be on my guard to keep them from uprooting my fall-back systems and suborning my contacts._

Another worry to add to his endless list. He spends the ride up shuffling through the names of people who might need a personal visit from him so as not to forget where their loyalties lie, trying to synchronize it with as many of today's tasks as possible, chaffing all the while at this waste of everyone's time. If the Councillors were half as attentive to the infrastructure of Insomnia as that of their own power base, there wouldn't _be_ emergency meetings about flooding.

By the time he's stepping out of the elevator he's in a fine froth of irritation. Training keeps it from his face and from his posture. The blockers keep it from his scent. The bell, blessed curse that it is, is a pointed reminder to keep his pace even and dignified on his way to the room.

Yet still the acrid flavour lingers in the back of his throat.

So when he steps into the room and the present Councillors blink at him, frown, shift uncomfortably in their seats, he feels it rising in his gorge. When Councillor Bix dares to raise his eyebrows and ask in sweet solicitation, "What brings _you_ here, _Courtesan_ Scientia?" it spills onto Ignis' tongue and poisons his words:

"The same thing that brings you, _Honorary_ Glaive Bix."

The words strike deep into the meat of the man's military pretentions, drawing truth to the surface, red and wet and shameful. His mouth shuts with a snap and his face goes pale. With rage, yes, but it's a flag of surrender all the same, Bix unable to meet the gaze of a man twenty years his junior who serves and bleeds and kills when Bix himself dares only puff about the sad (and entirely imaginary) necessities that keep him from actual service.

A quick sweep of the eyes has Ignis meeting the gaze of each of the other Councillors in turn, challenging them to try where Bix has failed. Most succeed in keeping up the mask of detached indifference, but Oppidius is betrayed by the tremble of his bristling white eyebrows, just as Iunca is by the low flutter of her lashes. Totramo, grey nonentity and professional fence sitter, even goes so far as to dip his head in submission.

Grimly satisfied, Ignis takes his customary chair at the table. Of the eleven Councillors, three have yet to arrive, and he spends the time waiting for them tapping at his phone, bringing up relevant financial data, his schedule, his messages, taking pleasure in the subtler scents in the air. The Councillors must have been truly convinced he'd miss the meeting if they've all forgone their usual wallow in stench.

Soon the stragglers arrive, Jubentius slinking in last with a cool, "Your services will not be needed for this, Brutus," to his new aid. Then it's business as usual, everyone settling into their hard, black iron chairs to argue over who's fault it is that they didn't replace the city subway's old pumps the last time this happened and who would foot the bill this time and if they were going to pay out for repairs anyway why not simply replace the lot?

~

As the meeting is an emergency situation, the Councillors cannot indulge themselves overlong. After all, while the subway systems are of no particular interest to them, their personal estates are mostly in the lush green valley of the island, kept dry by the same massive drainage system that services the rest of the city. When the subway's own pumps fail and it overflows, then priority in the system has to be given to draining it, which means that the longer the delay in repairs the more likely that the Councillors will find themselves coming home to damp carpets and fish on their lawns. . . .

Roughly two hours later, the meeting is adjourned, messages and authorizations and transfers of funds flashing out on electronic wings. Ignis takes his leave and makes a quick stop at his office before heading to Accounting to discus Noctis' donations, where a new hire breezily promises to have a report for him after lunch. It's nonsense, of course, and Ignis knows it, having done more than his fair share of such paperwork.

For now, he lets it go.

Then it's a long, winding path through the Citadel in deliberate scattershot of destinations that parades him around in the most ostentatious show possible as he reminds everyone that he is still a bureaucratic force to contend with. Reactions are mixed, to say the least, with plenty of raised eyebrows and frowns and the occasional awkward cough, the persistent fug of scents as betas condescend to offer him help and alphas display their virility. Some speculative looks, and just once an alpha tries to get handsy.

"Please don't mishandle the Crown Prince's property," says Ignis, and allows himself the cheat of magic, summoning the bite of actual frost to heighten the chill of his voice.

Eventually he finds his way to the kitchens. There he finds the Citadel's head chef, Libum. A lean, serious man, with the dark complexion so common to Altissians, he's deep in conversation with a pair of sous chefs when the sound of bells announces Ignis' arrival. He glances up and a frown rolls over his face like a cloud bank. He sends his underlings out of the room with a curt gesture, then crosses his arms and watches, expression troubled, as Ignis approaches.

"So it's true," he says, thrusting his chin at Ignis' ankle. "I had hoped it was just rumours. Selfish of me, I suppose, but old men get rather selfish. I apologize, Courtesan Scientia," and here he bows, slow and stiffly formal, "I always assumed you were a beta and never bothered to actually enquire, and so I've imposed on you and kept you from your proper duties."

The genuine regret in Libum's voice makes Ignis careful with his choice of reply. "My duties are to tend to His Highness' needs, whatever those may be. Though the household's irregular circumstances-" with a third of the staff devoted to nursing His Majesty in and out of the hospital "-might have placed me in a role more administrative than is customary for- for someone of my training, I assure you that it is both my pleasure and my privilege to manage the Prince's affairs."

"You'll forgive me for saying so, Courtesan, but it'd be your pleasure to turn yourself inside out if you thought it'd make the Prince happy. Which is as it should be for an omega," says Libum, frown softening into fond exasperation, "but it makes you terribly easy to take advantage of. Just look at how many hats you have to wear with the Crownsguard and the politics and the domestic management. All this stress on your system! No wonder you haven't-" He stops himself, coughs. "Ah. Well. As to that, what's that big beta of yours thinking, letting you run around playing housekeeper?"

Hopefully he's thinking that Ignis is a functional adult capable of performing his duties regardless of any handicap imposed by primitive biology. "Gladiolus has his own concerns," Ignis says, reigning in his temper. This man is a traditionalist, and no matter how invasive his . . . concerns . . . it wouldn't do to upset him so close to the upcoming Magnolia Ball, when the upper echelons of the military are wined and dinned and celebrated, and bribed into another year of loyal service. "I would ask that you not press the issue. These are troubled times, and we must set aside certain niceties in order to ensure that things run smoothly. I trust you understand?" he asks the chef, the reflections on every polished pot and pan, the shadows of the people hiding behind the kitchen doors.

The hesitation before Libum's answer is just enough to make Ignis' skin itch. "Yes, of course. Needs must, after all."

That should be the end of it. It certainly seems to be as they turn to more practical matters, discussing the preferences of the guests and the planned menu. Libum claps his hands to summon his minions, and they bring in samples, each beautifully plated and accompanied by a glass of wine, a private banquet for Ignis to judge.

"None of the candied flowers," he decrees. "This is too sweet for personnel used to military rations. His Highness won't eat this carrot dish, nor the pork with onions."

Ignis has done this dozens of times over the years, first assisting and then gradually assuming the duties of Adamantem, his opposite number who shadows His Majesty. And as one of Prince Noctis' betas, his judgement had been trusted implicitly.

Now, however, Libum tries to coax him with, "ah, but sugar violets are very popular this season," and, "have you tried it with the white wine?" and, most damningly, "Perhaps it's time His Highness was introduced to new flavours."

 _That_ is not to be tolerated. Ignis is many, many things, but above all, he is Adviser to the Crown Prince, his companion since childhood and the one personally entrusted by His Majesty with Noctis' wellbeing. He will _not_ have his judgement questioned by a mere chef, not for reasons as petty as the accident of his biology and absolutely not over matters regarding Noctis.

He sets his current glass of wine down on the counter with delicate precision. Then he turns to face Libum and draws himself up to his full height, crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying you're _unable_ to provide an alternative?"

The challenge catches Libum off guard. "Of course we're able-"

"Then do so," orders Ignis in same the flat, cold voice he's ordered murder.

He waits with all emotion scrubbed from his face, his gaze skewering Libum like a steel spike pins an eel to a chopping block, as the man squirms, as he _writhes_.

Because while Ignis had not wanted to offend Libum, this supposedly minor challenge to Ignis' authority is far more dangerous than it would first seem. The world of servants revolves around the kitchen - all come to eat, to socialize, to gossip. If Ignis allows Libum to usurp his judgement here, then by dinner every soul in service at the Citadel will know, and from there the guards, the officials, the ministers, the nobility . . .

The Council.

And so Libum is swiftly gutted on the carving block of Ignis' judgement. "If you are unable to follow this order then I will have no choice but to assume you are unwilling. Those unwilling to serve need not continue to do so." A good measure of salt is rubbed in to season the carcase with, "You need not let the Magnolia Ball influence your decision. There are plenty of catering companies available to provide for the event in your place."

Libum sputters a hasty, "Forgive me, Lord Scientia! You must have mis- _I_ must have misspoken!" He drops into a low bow, the kitchen filling with the scent of yeast and salt as he musks his beta scent in an effort to placate. "I am more than happy to adjust the menu in any way necessary."

Ignis lets the man stew for a long moment before finally offering mercy. "I'm delighted to hear it."

He takes covert note of the resentment in Libum's posture when the man straightens, in the sous chefs' attitudes toward this chastisement of their superior. The stiff shoulders and rigid backs, the lowered eyes and carefully neutral slant to every mouth makes it clear: no one is pleased about this exchange.

And truthfully, Ignis himself is pleased least of all. He had enjoyed his comfortable rapport with Libum, and he knows he's likely destroyed it forever with this posturing. But in a Citadel ruled by a sickly and absentee king, a Crown Prince struggling under his own burdens, and a Council eaten up with selfishness, the only path to respect for an omega Courtesan like himself is through fear. Without it, he is something to dote on, to humour, and then to promptly ignore.

Ignis says, "Lets move on, then. What are you thinking of serving for dessert?"

Chef Libum hurries to tell him. The sous chefs bring in the food with mechanical efficiency. Everyone is quiet as Ignis delivers his judgements. Everyone is on edge.

Not as it should be, perhaps, but certainly as it _needs_ to be.

~

After the trial of the kitchens, Ignis forces himself to run the gauntlet of the financial department offices once again. If he's no longer able to sneak up on workers and eavesdrop then he might as well solidify the impression that his approach is some sort of death knell.

He's already having moderate success. That fool in Accounting had clearly expected him to be satisfied by mere words. Likely she had thought to stall him with email 'updates' until she could be bothered to actually complete the work, a common tactic for lower level bureaucrats looking to coast along on goodwill.

By her blank face and jerky twitch at every ringing step he takes into her office, she hadn't thought that Ignis would show up in person to loom above her desk, taping his fingers in measured impatience at every weak excuse she offers.

"Well, I mean. After lunch- That's- I thought end of the day?" she bleats. Laughs nervously. "That is after lunch, so-"

"You'll have it in my email before 5pm," he counters. "As I've no patience for indulging technicalities like receiving your work moments before the stroke of midnight."

"But- but I need- from the other departments- it's not-"

"Not possible? Then why did you assure me you could do it?"

She has no good answer for him. He leaves her like that, sweating and flustered, and goes to visit Eudomia in HR.

"Courtesan Scientia." She greets him with a smile. It is small, cold, and precise as the financial graphs in glowing reflection across her spectacles. It is utterly genuine, and as such, an immeasurable comfort.

"Director Eudomia." He takes his seat before her desk on one of the guest chairs. Plain black like everything else, of course, and exactly the proper shade of impersonal discomfort to prevent people from lingering in the office and wasting Eudomia's time. "I've brought you the keys to my current apartment." The metal clinks as he sets it on the black iron of her desktop.

Her smile widens by an entire percentile. "Efficient as always. I'm pleased to be able to return the gesture in kind. The movers are ready to dispatch the day after tomorrow. There will be a pair of Crownsguard to oversee security, of course."

"Thank you."

"Moreover," she adds, "I have these for you."

She pulls a trio of folders from the rack on her desk and passes them across to him. With it comes a whiff of jasmine and sandalwood and the distinct undertone of a beta. It's the first hint she's ever given toward her secondary nature, and unease rises in his gut at this uncharacteristic display. He keeps his face impassive, however, and flips open the first folder.

Sketches of rooms. Photos of furniture, potted plants, paintings, rugs. Colour samples. This is an interior decorator's a portfolio.

She says, "Due to time constraints, we're only able to offer you a choice of three possibilities, but I believe you will be pleased with the selection."

The words are barely audible to him over the pounding of his heartbeat. He opens each portfolio, lays them all side by side on the desktop. A watercolour pallet with breezy curtains and abstract sketches on the walls; a tumble of jewel-toned fabrics, fat pillows and fainting couches; sleek black and silver minimalism that mirrors the Citadel's halls. They are lovely, lush, and classical by turn.

He stares at them. He picks up photos, pages through floor plans. In these he sees reflected his supposed roles of gentle omega companion, fecund lover, obedient Citadel creature.

He prefers warm wood, and plants, and handwoven rugs. He prefers to _be_ a-

His courtesan training rescues him from saying anything disastrously honest. "You've gone through a great deal of trouble on my account to have these ready so quickly. Thank you."

Because you must always be gracious, and _always_ be grateful.

"This one," he says, pushing forward the watercolour portfolio.

It's a choice made by exclusion. Fainting couches and pillows would only be used to catch Noctis as he collapsed, laughing himself sick each time he visited, and as for leaving the halls of the Citadel only to go home to more of the same - no.

The one mercy of his situation is that he can honestly say, "Gladiolus has expressed interest in sharing quarters with me. As such, it would be preferable to leave the second bedroom for guests instead of converting it immediately into a nursery." A possibility that each portfolio had put forward, photos filled with the black button eyes of stuffed animals, the spider tangle of mobiles, the maws of cradles ready to swallow a soul.

Eudomia's expression remains impassive, but her beta scent grows slightly stronger. No doubt she's pleased at the thought of Noctis consolidating his pack, since it's so often a sign of an alpha getting ready to breed. "Of course. Please let me know if Lord Amicita is ever in need of any assistance for his own move."

Ignis assures her he will.

When he leaves he takes with him the phantom images of rows of cradles like open graves. They linger at the back of his mind even in his office, as he reads through Gladio's reports on the adjustments to Noctis' personal security detail, as well as the revised security on the apartment building. He's grinding his way through each paragraph with stubborn determination until his phone sings Noct's distinctive chime.

HRHNoctis: aquarium with prompto

HRHNoctis: be home late dont wait up

HRHNoctis: gonna get food

Ignis stares at the words until the screen dims. Until it goes dark.

Then he puts away his phone and the reports, locks up his work station, and leaves his office.

~

Ignis glides his fingers across the gentle swell of a car's hood, the harsh lighting of this underground parking space making odd work of the shadows until the black leather of his driving gloves seem to melt into the black car, his flesh drawn into a strange, dripping world reflected in the glossy paint.

That bizarre mirage draws him back in time, to memories of when he's been young and the Citadel Carpool had seemed to him the best kind of fantastical menagerie, a land filled with sleek black mechanical beasts that could carry you anywhere, from the thornbush tangle of Insomnia's streets to the vast plains beyond the Crestholm bridge, and perhaps even into the far fairylands of Accordo, Niflheim, Tenebrae.

Ignis had yearned for those machines as only a child could. For the privileges of adulthood, for the glamour of the Crown, for elemental freedom of four wheels and a dream to carry him.

And how he had dreamt! At first simply to take Noctis to anyplace he wished, to see anything he wished. To watch the stars around the world. Then, later, to protect Noctis from the terrors that hunted the roads and attacked out of the night. To be by Noctis' side, _always_ , no matter where he needs must travel.

In these troubled times, Ignis dreams smaller. Noctis is not ever likely to leave the city, and anyways, he's past wanting to watch the stars with Ignis, and past wanting Ignis with him like a second shadow. Instead Noctis only craves silence and solitude, and so Ignis dreams of exactly that: a quiet drive with Noctis dozing in the back seat, the road stretching out before them endlessly, the night their only companion.

He presses his palm to the tinted glass of the side window. Slides his hand across it, relishing its sleek strength, reinforced with the best of technology and magic. Stolen secrets, that, taken along with so many others from the secret laboratories of the Empire.

_But not the name of the one behind the King's poisoning._

He banishes the stray regret. Hunting that cockatrice is Cor's business. His own is to ensure His Highness' safety and comfort, and for that end he has to inspect the latest model of Livery.

The personal car model of the Crown, available only to those in the highest levels of His Majesty's service, the Liveries are at the front of Lucian motor technology, with His Majesty's personal car, the Regalia, at the cutting edge of that.

The car Ignis usually drives for Noctis is actually a decommissioned Regalia, informally known as the Livery mark15, but the _actual_ 15 has been in development for several years now, and three trial models have finally been unveiled for general testing. Ignis had held off, leaving the initial delight of discovering glitches to the more adventurous Glaives, but by now the 15s are almost ready for general deployment and anyway, hurtling himself around a test track at irresponsible speeds in a four-wheeled medley of technology and magic that still has a remote chance of exploding suits his mood right about now.

To that end he begins to make his way toward the back of the lot where they keep the newest machines, only to find himself intercepted by the chief mechanic, Raeda, the chief mechanic's thunderous scowl, a miserable looking Lieutenant Opilio shadowed by her evident doubts, and a knot of young Crownsguard looking far too confident for people in such morose company.

"They're your security escort. Your 'chauffeurs'," spits Raeda as soon as he comes within earshot. "Order from Lord Amicita, it seems. A fool's idea, and I won't beg your pardon for saying so," he sneers at the bristling Crownsguard. "As Scientia has been driving longer than any of you have been in service. You just tell me if these puppies try to swipe your keys, m'lord," he says, turning back to Ignis, "and I'll have them in the brig post-haste."

Opilio, her shoulders slumped and her face flushed, offers the ground an extremely apologetic, "Lord Amicita is very keen on ensuring the safety of Prince Noctis' oldest friend and confidant. He asked me to personally escort them here and- and offer his good wishes to . . . to . . . " She catches her lip between her teeth as if to physical stem the dribble of patronizing mush she's been asked to regurgitate, and when she glances up at Ignis it's with honest shame on her face. " . . . I tried to tell him. About- about the alpha, and how you don't need, um. Help?" she finally admits.

It's a piece of bravery he hadn't thought her capable of, especially not in the face of Clarus Amicita. He gives her a nod of acknowledgement, and the poor girl brightens up like a dog given a pat instead of the expected blow.

As for the Crownsguard, Ignis' lips tighten when he scans the four of them. Betas the whole lot, they're an even split between boys and girls, and Raeda was right to call them puppies. Bumbling-young and not yet grown into their own limbs, teenagers overeager to prove themselves the fiercest of the pack. All of them freshly scrubbed and still smelling of starch from their new uniforms. All of so very certain that they are, _of course_ , entitled to be his driver by simple virtue of their biology. "I assume you've all been trained in tactical driving?"

"Got our certificates last month," barks one of the puppies. "Highest marks."

That puts them roughly at sixteen years of age. Three years younger than Ignis. A _lifetime_ younger than Ignis, who has served since the age of six and faced everything from assassination attempts and kidnappings in his time as Noctis' companion to shootouts in the street and even a raid on a terrorist cell while training with the Crownsguard elite.

"The King's Shield handpicked us," yips another.

Of course he did. "Lord Amicita has always been most . . . solicitous . . . toward me." Because Clarus Amicita had been there, in that room, on that bed, when Ignis had been stripped bare, and he had promised he'd treat Ignis with the care he'd give his own children, teach Ignis as he would his own children, and had spread Ignis' legs and taken what Ignis had trusted him enough to give what he would to no one else.

And Clarus has known himself for a liar ever since.

"I'll be sure to thank him in person for this gesture." Trap the man in his own office and force him to say to Ignis' face that Ignis should surrender his safety, his freedom, his last, lingering dream to these _puppies_. That every medal of honour and award ribbon granted to Ignis by the Crown is meaningless beside three drops of whore's silver.

Ignis can almost see the wagging tails of the four Crownsguard, oblivious to anything but the surface compliment in Ignis' words. Leather creaks as he fists his hands around the dregs of his temper and holds on for dear life. Every doubtful look, every second guess, every petty power game and compromise he's had to endure today pressed down on him in crushing weight, and now Clarus' patronizing guilt settles over it all like a fresh layer of grime while these fools look on and smile, and _smile_.

 _No. I_ refuse _to be pushed down._  
  
"As well meaning as he is, however, I cannot depend on a driver who can't at least match my skills behind the wheel. So, why don't we adjourn to the test track and you can show me what you can do?"


	7. Chapter 7

When Gladio doesn't hear from Ignis within the hour after having sent him the report on the reworked security detail, he suspects there's something up. When he shoots Ignis a quick text of,

Shield2HRH: ???

and gets only silence in return he _knows_ something's up. He's not too worried, though. Ignis is a busy man, even busier right now with fending off the grasping hands of the Council's influence, so if Iggy's not trapped in a meeting with those old voretooths, he's likely running around making sure everyone remembers to be too scared of him to step out of line.

Idly curious, Gladio taps the red shield icon on his phone. Aegis is an app exclusive to six people in Insomnia: the Shields, the Marshall, the Royal Family, and Ignis, and it ties them all together in a high-security network that lets them locate each other at a moment's notice. Handy little thing, especially since it still works from _inside_ the Armiger. It's only real downside is that it won't function outside the Wall.

_Not like it needs to, I guess. Ain't none of us likely to leave this place what with the current political clime._

The map of Insomnia loads onto the screen. Gladio's dad is where you'd expect, in the hospital with the King. Cor is somewhere in the south-east city district. Noct is . . . 

_Hmm. That's the area near the Aquarium, isn't it? And he was saying he wanted to take Prompto there on a date. . ._

And knowing how dense His Royal Petulance can be, Gladio will wager a good bottle of Causcherry Red that Noctis texted Iggy something like, 'gone to look at fish with Prompto, don't wait up,' completely clueless about the impact he'll have on the omega he's discarded like so much dirty laundry. 

Mind you, Iggy doesn't exactly make it easy to tell how he feels. He's always had the ability to throw up a mask of stony indifference, and after the Council had him hammered into their preferred mould he became downright statuesque. But he shouldn't have to make it obvious how he feels about being left behind for a newer, younger, blonder model who fits perfectly into the omega stereotype the way Ignis never has. A moment of thought should have been enough for Noctis to realize what kind of impact his actions would have on the people around him. 

_Then again, maybe noticing something outside himself is too much to expect from the kid what with how far up his own ass he's crawled trying to escape his problems._

Gladio can feel the ever-present flame of his rage spark, try to catch on this fresh tinder. He smothers it. He's on duty and he's worried about Iggy. He can't find him anywhere around the map of the Citadel. Not a Noct's apartment, not at Iggy's own. Where-?

He finally finds the crossed daggers of Ignis' icon all the way out by the Wall, in the Crown properties just west of those reserved for the more elaborate military and magical training. That puts Ignis smack in the middle of the weapons and vehicle testing grounds, and from what Gladio knows of Iggy, also puts him smack in the middle of the worst kind of bad mood. It's the only thing that would have sent him to the tracks outside his monthly practise runs, indulging in the reckless side Ignis is usually so careful to keep hidden, so careful to control.

Not difficult to guess why he'd feel that way these days. Still worrying. What if some fancy prototype Ignis is hurtling around in malfunctions? What if he gets another migraine when he's behind the wheel? 

What if Bahamut descends from the heavens and smites Insomnia for impiety? It's all the same because it's all just as likely, all bullshit excuses for Gladio to go look, to go check, to go be the good beta in this pack and make sure everyone is safe and healthy, if not happy.

It's not something Ignis will like.

Gladio closes the app and banishes his phone into the Armiger. There's a lot of stuff Gladio does that Ignis doesn't like. 

It should still get done.

~

He steps down from the Crownsguard shuttle bus. Behind him, the cadets he hitched a ride with march off across the parking lot toward the training grounds without so much as a good bye, serious and disciplined under the eyes of their officers. Ahead, the security guards at the checkpoint are already perking up at the sight of him heading their way. Their territory is not a place Gladio is familiar with, having never been involved with the more technical aspects of the military, but these guards still know him, as everyone in Crown service knows the Shields. 

Within moments he's been scanned, IDed, and is being ferried to the test track in one of the security guard's jeeps, the cool wind flowing in through the open windows like silk on his face. 

He takes in deep, appreciative breaths. The day's rain has washed the air clean, soaked into the land and left everything ripe with colour. The greenery of the surrounding forest is shades of deep emerald and jade, the asphalt of the road a satiny black that's spotted with puddles glinting electrum the late afternoon light. They shatter under the wheels of the jeep, throwing up a glittering spray in silver and gold that hangs suspended in the air for the heartbeat it takes the car to rumble past.

"You're just in time for the end of the race!" bellows the driver over the roar of the engine. "Lord Scientia rolled in about half an hour ago with the three new Livery 15s and a bunch of kids. They've been taking turns at the rallycross test track. Fucking embarrassing!"

Kids, huh? Now who could that be. "What, they shit or something?"

"They're damn raw is what they are! No surprise. I was on duty when they got their certificates last month. Dunno why Lord Scientia wants to rub their faces in the dirt, but he's gonna do it good. Last one clocked in at twelve minutes forty on the track, and Scientia can beat that when he's driving backward!"

They crest over the rise, the jeep leaping into the descent of the shallow valley while the view unfolds ahead of them: a jewel box of green velvet hills and satiny grass pillowing a great winding necklace of dirt and asphalt, water pits and parked cars. There's tire marks and splattered mud everywhere, and off to one side is the light-studded clasp of the finish line, where three muddy black cars have been parked, apparently waiting for the final run.

Closer now, and Gladio can pick out the black-uniformed personnel jogging up to the people by the parked cars, gesturing at the track, saluting to- _there's_ Ignis. He's half-hidden between two of the cars, but there's no mistaking that hair, those shoulders, the arrogant tilt of the head. Light glinting off his glasses puts the final signature to the portrait.

Gladio's view isn't the best what with the jeep careening forward like an eager dog, taking the road in bounds and surges of speed, cutting up the view in odd snapshots:

Ignis gesturing the workers away. Ignis at the car door, hip cocked and cocky. Ignis climbing in, long legs folding into the belly of his iron beast. 

Ignis, behind the wheel as the Livery 15 rockets from the starting line.

"Shit! We might not get there in time! Hang on, Amicita!" says the guard, and their own car scrambles ahead with renewed speed.

It's dizzying feeling himself moving like this when his gaze is locked on Ignis hurtling forward in a different direction, the Livery 15 cutting through the muck, mud spray like black lace fans flashing open only to fold and close and drop away in his wake. Through the bright dots of orange cones Ignis weaves without falter, through the narrow gaps between cement walls he flies at full speed. 

Gladio and his driver arrive at the waiting point just in time to watch Ignis drift around the first corner and slingshot himself away even faster than before, and Gladio sucks in his breath when Ignis sticks his hand out the window and casts magic ahead of him like his spear, straight and true as it hits the messy, sucking mess of the mudpool ahead and flash freezes it so Ignis can roar across without so much as a flicker of the break lights. 

The spectacle doesn't end there. Ignis sends his car flying over ramps and across gullies. He takes the maze of cement poles like a dancer, his car seeming to spin out of control only to twirl exactly into place so he can rush forward. He sends waves of flames ahead of himself to slag the strips of tire spikes, burning through the barrier of crates and trash, and then promptly _drives up the staircase_ behind that. From there his path is littered with old cars, and Gladio is fully expecting him to follow past tire tracks and gracefully swerve around them, only to choke on his heart when Ignis doesn't slow, doesn't swerve, but rams the Livery into the tail of the first scrap car to send it spinning away on its own newborn patch of ice. 

"Nice aim!" cheers Gladio's driver, because apparently you're supposed to smash into the other guy now.

The Livery is shedding swirls of silver dust and ice magic, enchanted in a way Gladio thought only Iggy's daggers could carry. One after another the cars in the way are sent spinning like discarded bottle caps until Ignis hits the straight away and the magic changes, the delicate flakes vapourized by the lightning crawling over the hood and the Livery is no longer there but here, right here at the finish line, slamming into place with all the ferocity of one of Ignis' deathblows.

Silence for all of half a second-

-then sound catches up in a thunderclap that rattles Gladio's teeth, as if Ramuh himself applauds Ignis' driving.

It takes a few moments more for Ignis to pop the door open and slink out, utterly feline in both grace and haughty attitude, disdaining to take note of the his audience of humiliated Crownsguard, eager engineers, the security guard and Gladio, still sitting in the jeep. Instead he does a slow walk around the Livery, stroking its metal flanks in positively obscene fashion, leaving long, loving finger trails in the muck that's splattered across black paint. Finally he comes to a halt in front of the hood. 

He flicks his fingers clean of mud. 

Apparently it's some sort of signal, because the engineers immediately mob him, chattering questions and tapping data into their tablets. Ignis is busy answering, so Gladio figures now's a good time to climb out of the jeep and rescue the Crownsguard from their misery. 

Poor kids. They've all slumped and crumpled, grass beaten down by Ignis' storm. Two of them are flushed with embarrassment, one's gone pale, and the last little bastard has plastered his hands to his face to try and hide the gritted teeth and tears of his frustration. 

Time to shake them out of themselves. "Tench _hut!_ "

The command snaps through them. They all jerk to attention, backs straight and heads up, baring their misery to the damp afternoon air. 

He can actually see the moment their brains catch up with their bodies and they register just who's giving out orders. Then the fight as they try to wipe any emotion from their faces, return to safe, blank, military propriety. The strain of it. The anger burning behind some of those eyes.

He makes sure to meet each of those fires with his own, letting his anger blaze at their defiance, beating them back into submission, and he musks his heavy scent to underline his authority as senior beta. "The hell are you guys doing? Sulking? Crying? Over what, your pride?" He favours them with his most condescending sneer. "How about you save all that pathos for something that actually _matters?_ "

"Or," he continues, stabbing them each in turn with a glare and twisting the blade with his words, "Are you all down for having all these elite R&D types see you as bratty kids who tantrum over a single loss?"

The group ripples as a wince flits through them. 

Gladio ignores the break in discipline because he's starting to see self-awareness shining through the cracks in their attitude. 

He pounds at those cracks with blunt facts. "Ignis has been training since he was fourteen, got his tactical driving certificate when he was fifteen, and has made it a point to practise twice a month on these tracks for the past _four years_. He's an active member of the Crownsguard and is the Crown Prince's personal driver. Are you _really_ that stupid you think you can out-drive him?"

He gives them a half-beat and then bellows, "I asked, ' _are you that stupid,_ '?!"

"No, Shield!" they bark.

" _No, what?!_ "

"No, we are not that stupid!" they chant, obedient as dogs and just as eager for praise.

"Only a little stupid, is that it? I might even believe it if you can start acting like you've got more between your ears than your egos. You've just been treated to a demonstration of some of the best driving in the 'guard. Dry your eyes, blow your noses, and start thinking about how you can suck up enough that Ignis'll condescend to give you a few pointers."

As one they turn their eyes to Ignis. 'Treat?' reads their expressions. 'Ignis has treat? Ignis give treat?'

It's great timing, too, Ignis having broken away from the grasping techs and is walking over to Gladio, only to find himself faced with four pairs of hopeful eyes. 

And here's the thing: biology has a hell of a lot less to say than people think. Ignis' body might insist he's an omega, but his heart has always been, and will always be, the heart of a beta. A nurturer. Gladio might get an itch under his skin if he doesn't know where his packmates are and what they're doing, but Ignis is the one who genuinely _likes_ looking after people. Feeding them, clothing them, picking up after them, and yes, teaching them. He's tutored Noctis for most of their lives, for example, and Prompto, too, the handful of times the kid's scraped up the guts to ask Iggy for help.

So when Ignis takes in those eager expression shining with the honest desire to learn, the scornful rage simmering under his skin drains away in a soft sigh. ". . . none of you inspected the vehicles before you got behind the wheel, nor did you bother to ask the research staff for any details about advancements made to the 15s. Email me a report contrasting and comparing them to the older models by next Monday, and I'll _consider_ offering a few pointers. You might also," he adds, pushing his glasses up his nose, "want to request a copy of the recordings taken so as to review your technique. The change in perspective is often most helpful."

Then Ignis crosses his arms with decided finality, so Gladio raps out, "Dismissed!" and practises his glower until the kids take the hint and trot off to bother the techs.

Once they're out of earshot he offers, "They're not so bad. Bit too excitable." He keeps his eyes on them, watching them latch onto the R&D staff like a pack of excited puppies discovering new playmates. "How'd they piss you off?"

"Through no fault of their own, if I'm to be honest. I'm afraid they got caught in the crossfire." There's an odd note to Ignis' voice, the words bitten off a little too sharply at the end. 

Gladio resists the urge to look at him. Instead he looks at the kids, filled with earnest determination as they study whatever the techs are showing them on their tablets. He looks at the sunlight fracturing into yellow-white shards on dirty car windshields, at the vast blue sky and the last of today's rainclouds escaping over the horizon. He lets distant chatter and gentle wind fill the space between him and Iggy, and waits. And waits. 

If Ignis wants to talk, he will. If not, well. It's a beautiful day. The air is fresh and clear. And right this moment Gladio's got nowhere to be and nothing to do but drink it all in, a brief glimpse of a life outside the glass and concrete prison of Insomnia.

When Ignis does speak his voice is as distant as that imagined freedom. "Your father thought they would make suitable chauffeurs for me."

And oh, that stirs the beast of rage inside Gladio once more. His constant companion, fierce and wild and taloned, it howls at this insult, this violation of its territory, its _pack_ , and he has to flex his muscles, throttle the air with his fingers to keep the creature contained. It fights him, rattling in his chest as a low, bitter growl.

"Indeed," says Ignis.

Now Gladio looks at him, sidelong, studying the blank slate Ignis has called a face since the last time Clarus Amicita thought to mess with Ignis' life. "You want to yell at him before I do?"

"How gracious of you to allow me the chance," Ignis sneers, acid in his tone and venom is his glare and it's welcome because it means he's showing Gladio something real, something honest, something the Council and the concubine trainers and Gladio's own dad tried to ruin.

"Fuck you," Gladio retorts. "He's my dad; I got rights."

Ignis laughs, sudden and sharp, and just as unexpected to himself as to Gladio to guess from the look on his face. He struggles for a moment. Gives in.

He's so pretty like this. Out here, surrounded by sky and trees and mud and wind, laughing as the sun gilds his hair, he almost looks like who he should have been.

~

They drive back to the Citadel in one of the 15s. The suspension is so good that the rugged track leading back to the guard station might as well be paved with glass, and the interior is a fantasy of black leather and ironwood. It's also deceptively minimalist, with only a single touchscreen in the centre console to supplement the gauge cluster, but a few idle taps of Ignis' fingers as he adjusts the airflow are enough for Gladio to glimpse the panoply of features hidden under the surface.

Lustrous, luxurious, and utterly smothering. Gladio tugs at the straps for the six point harness straining to contain the broad expanse of his chest and longs for an old fashioned seatbelt. 

"They'll loosen if you quit squirming," Ignis tells him.

"This a car or a giant snake? Nice cupholders, by the way. Really compliment the bulletproof glass."

"They are rather nice, aren't they? You can even individually set them to keep your drink hot or cold."

"Are you serious?!" and at Ignis' nod, "Why the fuck did R&D bother with something like that?"

"I rather suspect it's because no one thought to tell them not to. It seems they've finally starting to make significant headway with the magiteck Cor brought back from his last foray into the Imperial Research Laboratories, and they're eager to try anything and everything that pops into their heads."

" . . . magiteck, huh?" The word leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He's seen enough videos of it in action to be impressed, and enough reports on its aftereffects to dread its use. An entire town razed by a single one of Niflheim's walking horrors. Acres of fertile land bomb-blasted, ash-blackened, and left crackling with wild mana after only one pass by an Imperial airship. Those walking tin soldiers, filled with nothing but smoke and inhuman rage. 

And Lucis' best scientists are using it to make fancy cupholders.

Though Ignis keeps his eyes on the road, he deigns to let go of the wheel with one hand so he can poke Gladio in the cheek. "Do mind your teeth, Gladio. If you keep grinding like that you'll have no enamel left." He lets his hand be swatted away, returning his hands to the 9 and 3 o'clock before continuing, "And don't mistake their gadgets for useless frivolity. It's how they work the kinks out before they apply their discoveries on a large scale. They developed a whole series of minor features designed to channel enchantments before they worked out how to apply it to the entire vehicle."

Gladio frowns and raps a knuckle against the door. "Is that how you were frosting everything back on the track? You enchanted this whole car like you do with your knives?"

"Something close to, yes. I fear it's still in early development, however. It takes enormous amounts of mana to maintain. I might be able to pull some fancy tricks on a closed course, but in a drawn out chase I'd have to be much more circumspect. And as for those children . . . " He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Their wells aren't deep enough yet to do more than rudimentary enhancement."

Gladio's eyebrows lift. "So what you're saying is that it takes a genius like you to wield this weapon."

"If I were a genius I'd be able to warp," Ignis replies tartly, the old irritation at his magical handicap surfacing once more.

The absurdity of it lightens Gladio's mood enough to banish his visions of phantom battlefields. He grins, settling into his seat, and taps his fist against Ignis' shoulder. "Gotta leave something for other people to be good at, Iggy. Who knows, though. Maybe Cor'll bring you back a souvenir next time he goes out into Nif territory. He's found enough weird shit in there that it wouldn't surprise me if he found something that'll let you make the jump."

Ignis turns onto the road leading them back into Insomnia, a path straight as a sword blade and just as cruel, cutting straight into the city's towering ribs of glass and concrete to stab at the towering black heart that is the Citadel. "Perhaps, but it shan't be anytime soon. I fear the Marshal's freedom to wander has been sadly curtailed by current events."

There goes Gladio's good mood. Well, easy come, easy go. "The bastards behind Prompto's attack, right? Any news on that?"

"Identifying the ones directly responsible for the false incident report used to cover up the time discrepancies has been easy enough. The problem lies with moving up the chain from there. As for the dead alpha . . . " Ignis shakes his head. "The Crownsguard seem to be dragging their feet on the investigation. Since I haven't received any updates, I've sent Lieutenant Opilio to enquire in person, but I don't have high hopes. It feels far too much like someone is interfering."

Gladio watches the city loom higher and higher as they approach, its straight lines and sterile planes of asphalt in odd contrast to the cancerous sprawl of its many districts. "Stonewalling an IntSec investigation is pretty fucking risky, seeing as how it's treason if they're caught. You think they'd have the guts?"

"They're doing it. Isn't that answer enough?"

". . . shit. _Shit._ " He slams his fist into to the door over and over, using the pain, the hard thump of bone and flesh against plastic and metal, to ground himself against the whirl of implications this brings so he can focus on the one that matters most: the Citadel is now enemy territory. "So it's like that, huh?" 

"It's like that," Ignis agrees. "Which is why it's imperative that you begin with Prompto's self-defence lessons. I don't believe that the Guard is so far gone as to assassinate him, but they'll likely be careless with his security and slow to respond to any emergencies concerning his safety."

"Don't worry. Tomorrow's Saturday. I've got him first thing in the morning, and I'll make sure he gets how important this is if I have to carve it into his forehead."

Tension flows out of Ignis' shoulders on the gust of a sigh. "Good," is all he says, but it's all he needs to. That the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes have eased, the frown hovering at his lips faded, is thanks enough.

~

Dropped off at the Citadel, Gladio spends the rest of his afternoon pushing his body to the limits on the training ground in solitary training, trying to sweat his anxieties out, because at this point he's checked and rechecked the background files of the personnel assigned to Noct's security detail, reviewed the rosters and the shift rotations, the backup plans and the emergency protocols, even glanced over the equipment, and there is nothing else he can possibly do right now to make Noctis safer but it doesn't feel like _enough_. 

Gladio's instincts claw at the frayed edges of his nerves. His training demands that he see the blow coming before it falls. He wants to leave the Citadel and hunt down his alpha and follow him as a Shield should, as a Shield needs to if it's to protect-

-but he can't because that same alpha is so spooked by the shadow of the Crown that he cowers from his own packmates.

There's a bitter taste in Gladio's mouth at the thought, so he spits onto the dirt of the training yard a few times before pulling his water bottle from the Armiger and taking a swig, swishing it around, spitting again. 

There is no place for the resentment Gladio feels. Literally - no space in his brain filled with the harsh dictates of duty, nor in his heart flooded with the bitter pride from excelling at a job he neither wants nor is thanked for, nor even in his life where he is surrounded by people loyal and true. So let it all come out here, with the sweat and the rage, the tears and the blood, just another weakness to work through on the training grounds.

Like always, he does his best to leave the emotions there in the yard's dirt and dust when he leaves. Like always, he feels them padding after him, slow and purposeful and thudding in his bones: a behemoth's hunting prowl.

Like always, they catch him when he reaches home.

~

"Welcome home, Sir," says Jarred, bowing Gladio into the house.

He stands in the entry, balancing on one leg and tugging at his bootlaces. "Hey. Iris back from school yet?"

"Indeed, though I fear something has upset the young Miss. She's locked herself in her room, Sir," Jarred explains when Gladio glances up. "And she's been musking quite strongly."

Gladio groans. The Amicita temper has always smoldered under Iris' sunny disposition, and now that she's thirteen, with puberty digging in its roots and hormones flooding her system, anything can strike a spark and set her off.

He tosses his boots into the closet; a heavy, double thump. "I'll go see her as soon as I'm changed."

"Yes, Sir. Dinner is at eight."

From the shoe rack Gladio takes his indoor runners, making sure to tie them on before heading in. When he'd been a kid his dad had told him indoor shoes were so that Gladio wouldn't slip on the polished wooden floors. Now that he's an adult he knows it's to save him precious seconds if he has to rush to Noct's side. 

That's also why all the servant rooms are on the upper floors while the Amicitas live on the first, in the symmetrical wings to either side of the manor house. Gladio's own room is in the east wing, with a pair of glass doors to leading to the garden where he trains at home. And of course, from there he can also directly access both the garage and the street. 

It's a big, comfortable room, filled with his gear and his clothing and his books, and empty of his packmates. Empty of his bloodfamily, too, his sister no longer visiting and his father never having visited at all, and even the memory of his mother erased, everyday life painting over her in coats of one day at a time, until the only trace of her left is the photo on the dresser.

The place stinks of nothing but himself.

His Crownsguard uniform goes into the laundry. Moments later he's changed into loose sweats and a t-shirt, and is retying his shoes. He leaves himself behind, leaves the east wing where all the members of the family in active service live, and heads to the west side, a wasteland of empty rooms ruled by his sister.

It certainly smells like her territory. Iris still has her child-scent, the smell all kids develop early to please their parents or their family-pack's leader, which in Iris' case means their dad. Kid scents are always something home-y, something they smell when people around them are happy and settled, which usually means food. Built big, built strong, the Amicitas burn a lot of calories. Sugar, fat, a bit of caffeine, and a great taste: chocolate's always been a favourite pick-me-up, and it's the finisher for almost every meal. So that's why the entire west wing smells like a chocolate box-

-except that there's more to it now. Gladio opens his mouth and sucks in air, let's the breath linger on his tongue and at the back of his throat to be sure, but there's no mistake. What used to be sweet and uncomplicated has gotten richer, more bitter, and layered underneath it is the unmistakable musk of a beta.

Iris Amicita is growing up.

And she's been having to do it here, in this mausoleum of empty suites, each one another tomb to the Amicita's fading glory. Used to be that they'd be home to sisters, brothers. Cousins. Retired grandparents. Generations crammed into both sides of the mansion, sharing space and scents, they way they shared in the burden of serving the Crown. Now, after close to two centuries of attrition warfare with the Nifs, the Amicita have been worn down to only three survivors, with Iris, their only noncombatant, living cheek to cheek with ghosts.

She's never talked about it. Never mentioned being lonely. She'd visit their parents room . . . before. Came to see Gladio a lot right after their mom died, but that faded away along with the memories. 

That'll change now that she's stated showing as a beta. There's only one place for a beta kid of the Amicita main branch, and it ain't in the noncombatants wing. 

 _A lot of things are gonna change._ And when Gladio knocks, enters at Iris' wobbly "Come in," he can tell she knows it, too.

Her clothing is piled up all around her on the floor. Her school uniforms, her skits and her sparkly tops, her fancy jeans and her summer dresses, they all make a wall around her body as it sits curled on the floor, her arms cradling her knees, her face buried in her arms.

He considers a couple options before deciding the best thing to say is nothing, instead choosing to go sit with her on the floor, pushing away the heaped up laundry so he can press against her side and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She's small against him, and tense, fighting his hold. That's fine. Good, even, that she's still got fight in her. 

She says, "Nothing fits right anymore."

"Yeah. I figured." It happened to him like this, too. You hit puberty and suddenly the Amicita blood works its will, burning you up from the inside to remake you into something three times bigger, broader, taller. "You hurting?" Growing pains making your bones melt and sear, lava in long taffy sticks. Your skin so tight it splits along the seams. Everything changing at a speed just short of _magic_.

Iris take a shuddering breath, nodding, her fingers flexing on her knees. "I . . . took a potion . . . "

"But that just made it worse," he finishes for her. He shifts his arm so he can rub her back in slow, gentle strokes. "Magic always gets touchy around puberty. All that stuff growing at once and it doesn't know what's normal and what it needs to fix. Don't use anymore for the next couple months, okay? We'll get you painkillers and heat packs, a shit ton of supplements. Gonna teach you some stretches . . ."

He keeps talking to her, laying out plans in a low, calm voice, until the soft snuffle of her tears fade and she manages to lift her head. 

The shitty potion didn't even manage to help patch up her face, the raw red of a scrape on her cheek and across her chin. He touches her face carefully, turning it to check the angles, see how bad it is.

"I tripped over my own feet. Pretty lame, huh?" she admits, grinning to cover her winces. It doesn't work. It also does nothing to hide swollen redness of her nose, the tear tracks on her cheeks. The salt must have stung against torn skin. Her mouth works a little, until she can finally bring herself to ask, " . . . are the marks gonna go away? On, on my back? And my thighs? And-"

"Stretch marks fade, and all the better if we treat them early."

She nods, but misery is still weighing down the line of her shoulders, wilting the curve of her lips. Her gaze flits over the clothing scattered all around them and she droops even further. "I'm gonna get big now, huh? Like you and dad."

"And mom," he reminds her. 

" . . . it was an arranged marriage," she whispers, and maybe that would have been out of nowhere in another family, but for Gladio, who endured years of ribbing from dickwads who thought it was funny to ask if his dad's back hurt from holding up the Meteor and if his mom had bruised when she fell from space, it's pretty obvious what Iris is thinking: a beta who's head and shoulders above their alpha is a fucking joke. And no one wants to romance a joke.

Especially not a pint sized prince.

Except if you've ever seen the way Noct's gaze follows Ignis, you'd know that, "Noct doesn't care." Gladio tells her. "Hell, he might even be into taller partners."

But Gladio isn't the only one thinking about Iggy. "If Noctis doesn't care why hasn't he- why isn't he- you know. With Ignis?" Iris darts a glance up at him as she bites her lower lip, then blurts, "He's with Prompto instead, right? The other kids were talking after class."

The 'other kids' being the children of Glaive officers, Iris being enrolled in an elite school just two steps short of being a military academy and favoured by all the Lucian military brass. That the kids of those officers are gossipping about His Highness' sex life is ringing all kinds of bells in the back of Gladio's brain but it's hard to hear them over the sudden wash of memory of- 

-the rain on the Citadel's windows. The low murmur of voices, garbled by laptop speakers as the screen played a documentary about naked kids curled up on bare mattresses in stark white rooms. Noctis' voice, distant for all that he was right beside Gladio on the couch, asking, "Do you do this? When you- when you _fuck?_ Do you keep asking until they say yes?"

"The hell are you saying?!" Gladio had snapped. "You think I'm some sort of-" animal-beast-monster "rapist?"

Noctis had brushed his fingers against the screen, traced the mosaic blur of a girl his own age striped and spread and being gently coached into saying, 'yes' and 'please.' "The Council are doing this to Specs. They want me to be part of it. They want me to be that. They want-"

"Thank you very much," had warbled the girl on screen, and Noct had snatched his hand back as if burnt, pulling away and pulling in on himself, and the dry voice of the documentary's narrator had done a piss-poor job in covering for Noct's own ragged, furious snarls as the sky cried for all of them-

Even now the memory brings bile to the back of Gladio's throat, forcing him to swallow before he can tell Iris that, "Noct's reasons have got _nothing_ to do with Ignis' height. Look, I get that this is sudden shock and it feels like your body is on loan. Every Amicita's gone through it, it sucks every time, and all of us break our noses on a door jamb at least once. But once you come out the other side you'll be front and centre in everyone's view, and, speaking from personal experience, people _like_ that view." 

He calls up memories of his many eager and emphatically willing partners to help banish the last of the memory. Greedy hands and lust-dark eyes and soft mouths help kindle warmth in his chest, and a smile manages to spark on his lips. "Especially in bed."

Iris' face flames. "Gladdy! TMI," she whines. 

Though she's still too much the kid to admit the comfort she's taking from such blunt reassurances, the loosening of her defencive curl says plenty. He jostles her and coaxes, "Nothin' but the truth. Amicitas got quantity _and_ quality, and don't you ever forget it, Squirt. And for the clothes, twenty minutes online and we'll get you something cute and comfortable and delivered by tomorrow, guaranteed. Then this weekend you can go shopping with Monica. How about that?"  
   
She peers hopefully up at him from under her lashes. "Will you come, too?"

"I've got work," he says with real regret, wishing he could be there to shore up any weaknesses in her confidence. "You'll have to settle for my credit card."

Iris quickly covers her disappointment with playful pout. "So, what you're saying is that you'll pay for a whole new wardrobe."

His life savings flash before his eyes. ". . . just leave me enough for Cup Noodles." 

" _Fine_. Even if I _shouldn't_. Those things are, like, ninety percent salt, you know," she says, delicately wrinkling her nose. 

"Nothing a good workout won't sweat out of me."

"Ewwww. You're always so gross!" She shoves him, which of course means he's gotta shove her back, and within moments they're wrestling on the floor and trading insults like any well-bred kids of ancient nobility would.

He's giving her pointers on technique as she pins him with an arm bar when Jarred knocks on the door.

"Dinner will be a trifle late this evening. Lord Clarus has sent word he'll be joining you," the old servant announces. 

Iris squeals with delight and immediately detaches herself from Gladio to hang off of Jarred and tug him toward the kitchens, her fading voice demanding what time Clarus will be home, will he stay the night, what are they having for dinner, for desert.

With her goes all the cheer in the room, leaving Gladio to pick himself up off the floor with only the family ghosts and his personal memories for company.

He hopes Clarus will arrive hungry. Gladio finds he's somehow lost his appetite.


End file.
